There's nothing like a fresh pair of eyes, is there?
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: I heard an old fondly remembered song from teenage years, and it gave me EXACTLY the right sort of inspiration to tie up a loose end dangling from "Nature Studies." A young student Assassin, blinded, receives new eyes. But at what cost? Pioneering Igor(ina) surgery combined with a music meme. Or two.
1. The Harvester of Eyes, that's me

_**Looking Through Fresh Eyes**_

_(Tying up a dangling loose end left loose at the end of **Nature Studies**)_

_Bloody hell – five or six chapter continuations on the go, plus promised artwork for various groups on **DeviantArt,** and I **still** start a new one... talk about a butterfly mind..._

_This is developing into a music meme... the inspiration for this short was listening to the Adverts' old song **"Looking Through Gary Gilmour's Eyes"**, grooving to a teenage memory, and then recollecting that Perry-Bowen's eyes is a story yet untold. (Amazing how association of ideas works). For those not around for punk rock in the late 1970's, Gary Gilmour was an American serial killer who wanted to make amends after his execution, by bequeathing those bits of himself left undamaged by the execution process to medical transplantation. In the event they only used bits of his eyes. This inspired the Adverts to record what at the time was held to be a somewhat tasteless ditty sung from the point of view of the **recipient** of Gilmour's eyes. It's on You-tube somewhere. ( watch?v=cqx18CHDxbI)_

* * *

_**Prologue: **During the recapture of loose wild animals in Hide Park (covered in my fic **Nature Studies**) student Assassin Catherine Perry-Bowen lost both eyes and suffered serious facial damage when attacked by a rogue baboon. She was taken to the Watch Igor and the Guild's Matron Igorina for medical attention. A quote from **Nature Studies**:- _

Emmanuelle, meanwhile, was in conference with the Igors over Catherine Perry-Bowen.

"We couldn't save her eyes. They were damaged beyond repair" Igorina said, quietly.

Emmanuelle nodded. She'd expected to hear as much. Now she had the hard job of breaking the news to the family and arranging for the poor blind child to be transferred to a school more appropriate for her new needs. She couldn't, of course, remain at the Assassins' School.

"There is another way." Igor said. "Bio-artificing."

"You can _replace_ eyes?"

"He breeds them" said Igorina. She went to the back of the hospital trailer and called "Constable Williams?"

The Watchman stepped forwards. Emmanuelle looked at his face. One eye was blue, the other… brown?

"He lost an eye while on Watch service." Igor said, smoothly. "I replaced it with a bioartificed organ."

Emmanuelle asked Williams a few questions, discovering that he'd had his original right eye gouged out in a fight**(1)** and Igor had been very keen to try out his new idea to see if it had worked. Assuring herself that it was as good as the real thing, she had given consent to replacement of the eyes, provided, and I wish you to be completely clear on this, mr Igor, they are both of the same colour, hmmm?

Igor had agreed instantly, but had asked "One last thing, Madame? With a view to improving my stock, may I take a tissue sample from you?"

Emmanuelle was on her guard.

"May I ask, for what reason?"

"You depend on your eyes for your work. Your vision has to be excellent in all respects. I would dearly like to be able to bio-replicate the eyes of a superbly co-ordinated athlete and fighting swordswoman. To use only the very best! All I need is a very small tissue sample…"

"From my EYES?" she nearly shrieked.

"All I need to is to take a swab from the surface of your cornea. This will provide enough living cells, perfectly painlessly, for the bio-replication process to begin. In eight weeks, a perfect clone of your eyes will exist, for implantation into a lucky recipient…"

All eyes moved to Catherine.

"And in the meantime, she has a temporary set? Then the permanent eyes she receives are a copy of mine?"

Despite herself, Emmmanuelle felt flattered.

"And who knows, her swordswoman skills are bound to improve. _Eh bien_, take your samples!"

_**Eight Weeks Later...**_

"She ith coming out of the anaeththetic now."

Catherine heard the voice as if it came from the other end of a tunnel. She felt tired, sluggish, slightly nauseous. Movement was a struggle: it might have been possible, but in the torpid langour, _the aftermath of some sort of drug? We had a lecture from Mericet about how to recognise if we've been drugged and how to fight it if somebody's doped you..._. she felt lazily disinclined to move. Something was restraining her arms, anyway.

It was strange. She could remember a lecture from Skullface Mericet that had happened over a year ago. Little flashes and glimmers of her past life were coming back to her. She recalled the first day at the School, lonely and somewhat scared. She remembered meeting Miss Band and... the other teachers, one was Quirmian, what was her name? She remembered being enchanted by the baby animals she had seen and tended in the Animal Management Unit. The aye-ayes, cheeky, nocturnal, big-eyed, confident and without fear, a clumsy-looking but engaging creature. But could she remember anything that had happened in her more recent past? It was, for the moment,beyond her.

She smelt crisp clean linen and a hint of starch. A deeper background smell, astringent, pine-scented, disinfectant, like the School cleaners used but stronger. The aye-ayes came back to her memory. Impossibly large-eyed creatures, big appealing eyes... their _eyes_...She tried to open her own eyes...

...and _then_ she remembered.

The shriek. The rush of foul feral breath. The wide-open jaws. The sheer size and force of the creature, although she had broken her crossbow using it as a club to fend it off, a last-ditch defence. Being bowled over by its weight. And her last image before darkness and excruciating pain began had been its jaws closing in...

Catherine screamed and tried to sit bolt-upright. Strong but kindly hands restrained her. Hands at her wrists and shoulders, a gentle hand on her brow just above the things that were preventing her from seeing clearly...

A voice close to her ear said "Catherine, _ma petite_? Do you recognise me? Please understand you are in no danger now. That which makes you scream and your heart race madly is but a memory. It is over. It will pass. _Reste tranquille, cherie_."

Catherine recognised the kindly, Quirmian-accented voice, but for the moment could not attach a name. She associated it with swords and daggers, somehow. She felt the strong reassuring hands taking her left hand in between them. They felt rough, calloused, but were also a woman's hands. Her pulse slowed and her panting breath subsided. She recalled a lesson in _how to breathe_**(2)**. The calming breath, the one that put you back in control of your body and quelled anxiety. She realised she was in a place of safety. _But what is happening with my eyes?_ She was aware of a diffused white blur in her field of vision. A new memory surfaced, bringing pangs of pain and loss. _But I remember a kindly voice, that explained to me I had lost both my eyes. This is a cruel joke my brain is playing on me. Wishful thinking, Catherine. _

"Catherine. Catherine, do you hear me? We are now going to commenthe removing the bandages from your face. You have had a lot of delicate thurgery over the past few weekth. Your fathe may thtill be thwollen and bruised, but thith will thubthide."

She calmed herself further by deciphering the identifying lisp. _Ah. An Igor. But not even they can rescue shattered and burst eyes?_

"You are in a private room at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital." the Quirmian woman's voice said again. " Well, not _completely_ free, _peut-etre_, as the Guild is paying for what is needed. It is perfectly natural you should be feeling disorientated and as if part of your memory is lost, as you are returning to normal wakefulness from a necessary period of deep sedation. Several restorative operations have been carried out on you, as your face suffered great damage. If all goes well, you will soon see for yourself. Igorina?"

Catherine felt her upper body lifted and supported. Gentle hands came close to her head. She could sense them. She was a student Assassin, after all. And as other memories returned, she could place the Quirmian woman now. She had smelt that particular perfume in many a classroom.

"Madame Deux-Epées?" she asked. The response was a reassuring squeeze of her hands.

"Not just me, _cherie_."

Catherine felt a tug on her bandages, followed by a snipping sound. The pressure eased. Numbly, she saw the white light getting stronger as the layers of gauze and bandage were removed. Somebody placed a stethoscope to her chest.

"Heartbeat normal. Blood pressure good." said a woman's voice.

Catrherine, bewildered, could now see hazy indistinct shapes. _At least I have _**some**_ vision left, _she thought. _Even if I cannot see details. I may have to be content with this miracle. I hope it means I can stay on at the School._

She winced at the sudden uncontrolled influx of light after so long in bandages. Her eyelids closed for a while – _they still work? - _and she tentatively opened them again to take in her surropunding environment.

Several of the shapes were black, or wearing dark clothing. Tilting her head to the left, she saw black clothes, possibly a female shape, the pale blob of a face, and the black of hair above that. Another black-clad shape was watching from the foot of the bed, male, possibly, looking excited and intent. Next to him was a brown-clad shape. This one seemed to have red hair. A white-clad woman stood to her right. She radiated professional anxiety. A shorter shape stood next to her, looking somehow lopsided. She sensed another person behind and to her right, out of her field of vision.

"Pleathe tell me what you are seeing." Matron Igorina, from the Guild. The lisp only re-entered her voice when she was professionally absorbed.

Catherine took a deep breath. She felt as if she had been handed something of her life back. It was a lot to take in.

"I am seeing only blurred shapes at the moment. But I can distinguish people. There are six people in the room, although I can only see five of them. The sixth I can sense is standing behind me and to my right. I know her from her voice to be Matron Igorina. There are two other Igors in the room, observing. From the dark clothing I know there are at least two Assassins in the room. One is Madame Deux-Epées. But I know that from her voice, and the fact her hands holding mine are calloused by years of sword practice. There is a hospital nurse on my right. I deduce that from her white clothing and the fact she has placed a cold stethoscope on my chest.

"I believe Miss Smith-Rhodes is in the room, as although she is silent, I see a brown-clad figure with red hair. The second black-clad Assassin is somebody I cannot recognise."

"I feel I should introduce myself." a kind, well-modulated male voice said. Catherine had heard that voice often, at Morning Assembly, High Dinners and sometimes in classrooms and lecture theatres. She tried to struggle upright.

"Sir? I am here." she said, automatically. Lord Downey, Master of the Guild of Assassins, laughed in a low, joyous way.

"Please. Do not exhaust yourself. I am very, very, pleased to see you almost restored to health. I find it especially pleasing that your injuries have not affected your ability to think and reason. The last eight weeks have been stressful and you have been on our thoughts. Madame Deux-Epées?"

The Quirmian woman squeezed her hand again.

"I have a special reason to be here." she said. "You were working under my direction when you were...injured. _Alors_, I feel responsible. Also, I saw the extent of your injuries when you were wounded."

Catherine sensed the woman shuddering.

"Such injuries as you received haunt my nightmares. But Igor, Igor and Igorina have been assessing you as we speak..." she stepped aside as one of the shorter Igor-shapes bent forward and shone a light into both eyes, nodding critically.

"Rethtorathion ith near-complete." he said, turning off the light. There was a reptilian click as the mini-salamander**(3)** in the light tube relaxed its reflex. "The new eyeth hath taken and connection to the optical nerveth hath been a great thuccethth."

"New eyes?" said Catherine, perplexed.

"It is now within the reach of Igoring to replathe eyes tho badly damaged that they cannot be saved." Igorina said, from her right. "Igor here has perfected a technique he calls bio-artificing."

"I uthed it first on a Watchman who lotht an eye in the course of duty." said the Watch Igor. "You are the second patient to receive new eyes."

"Igor here, one of the Free Hospital Igors, repaired the damage to your bone structure and underlying tissue. He also restored your nose, which the creature tore off." said Igorina. Igor here, who works for the City Watch, cultivated your new eyes..." Igoring paused for a moment. Catherine wondered if there was something about her new eyes that she was, at least for the moment, not prepared to disclose. She sensed the hospital nurse, more used to the limitations of conventional medicine, was quivering with dissaproval and barely concealed anxiety. Some things, like moods and emotions, can be read by a good Assassin, without recourse to vision. "He also installed your new eyes. I myself performed the task of grafting on new skin to your face and repairing the external damage."

Catherine shuddered. Igorina smiled and added, in a kind voice. "Male Igors are good. But their stitching leaves much to be desired. I have done my best to ensure your repaired face will look as near to perfect as is possible."

"I insisted on this." said Madame Deux-Epées. "Miss Smith-Rhodes also communicated her express wishes to the Igors. Catherine, _ma petite_, I am looking at your face now. There is some swelling, but it will subside. The scars are the finest of white lines on your face. I believe they will only show clearly if you become suntanned, or if you are in high passion. This is for the good, _cherie_. I myself could live with such scars. On an Assassin, they are good for the image, _non_? They display you have seen and survived hard fighting. They will attract the right sort of interest, and most certainly the respect of those you encounter. In this respect, you are fortunate!"

"Thjis is amazing, gentlemen. Igorina." said Downey. "Even after seeing it for myself I still cannot quite believe it. But Miss Perry-Bowen will be back with us in?"

"Perhaps two weeks, sir." said Igorina. "Everything has gone according to the prognosis." (the Assassins present were glad she had said "prognosis" and not one of the Igors.) "We expect her vision to be somewhat blurred as the new eyes adjust to their owner. Altho, much of the visual process happens in the brain, not in the eyes. It will take a little time for the optic nerves to form renewed aththociations with the visual cortex of the brain, tho that the eyeth work to optimal efficthienthy. Then she will see perfectly again. Perhapth better than before!"

"How long?" Johanna Smith-Rhodes inquired. She noted, interestedly, that as Igorina got more engrossed in her area of expertise, the clan lisp reasserted itself.

"Perhaps a week. But you cannot hurry eyeth and nerveth."

"Most excellent!" Downey proclaimed. "Well, I have to see Doctor Lawn and pay him my regards. I'm sure you need rest, my dear?"

"I'll stay with her for a while." Johanna said. "Efter ell, I put her in a position where she received injuries. It is only right."

And the Assassin party left the bedside, leaving Catherine with Johanna Smith-Rhodes and Igorina. They talked for a while, then Catherine fell asleep again.

* * *

A lot of hospital conferences take place in whispered huddles in corridors. This was no exception. A safe distance from Catherine's room, Madame Deux-Epées turned to Matron Igorina and asked, anxiously,

"I do not wish to criticise your medical skills, _ma chere amie_. But do you think it was the correct thing to do, to not tell the child about the potential psychological and psychic side-effects of her new eyes?"

Igorina smiled a very short smile. She replied,

"Emmanuelle, _you_ should be in the very best position of all to monitor and observe that! Telling her now would only put the idea into her head, and then, inevitably, she _will_ manifest the possible side-effects. _We_ wait and observe."

Lord Downey pulled up sharply.

"Side-effects?" he said, abruptly. Igorina sighed.

"I do not wish to over-emphasise this, my Lord, but there is a chance of certain side-effects resulting from the eye implantations. These will not be directly physical, but will act on her psyche. I suppose you ought to know..."

A few minutes later, Downey took a deep breath.

"I see." he said. "As you say, Matron, we can only watch and keep the young lady under observation."

_And that sets up Chapter Two... more ocular shennanigans next time!_

* * *

_**(1)**_ Se_**e Moving Pictures! The Sequel!**_ or _**Nature Studies**_for the real tale of how Lance-Constable Williams lost an eye.

_**(2)**_Miss Pretty Butterfly, the Lecturer in Agatean Studies, taught a module in Zen breathing and mind-clearing techniques useful to the Ninja on a mission.

_**(3)**_ Specially bred at the Thaumatological Park to power a new generation of pocket torches, miners' helmets for Dwarves, and medical equipment. The Park is a great money-spinner for the University.

* * *

Bonus song lyric: _**Gary Gilmour's Eyes**_ by the Adverts.

I'm lying in a hospital, I'm pinned against the bed,  
A stethoscope upon my heart, a hand against my head;  
They're peeling off the bandages, I'm wincing in the light,  
The nurse is looking anxious and she's quivering with fright.!  
I'm looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!

The doctors are avoiding me, my vision is confused;  
I listen to my earphones and I catch the evening news,  
A murderer's been killed, and he donates his sight to science!  
I booked into a private ward, I realise that I  
Must be looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!

Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes;  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes;  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes;

I smash the light in anger, push my bed against the door,  
I close my lids across the eyes I wish to see no more;  
The eye receives the messages and sends it to the brain,  
No guarantee the stimuli must be perceived the same -  
When looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!  
Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes!

Gary don't need his eyes to see;  
Gary and his eyes have parted company!

1**(1)** Specially bred at the Thaumatological Park to power a new generation of pocket torches, miners' helmets for Dwarves, and medical equipment. The Park is a great money-spinner for the University.


	2. And I See All There Is to See

_**Looking Through Fresh Eyes: Afternoon tea with Igor.**_

_(Tying up a dangling loose end left loose at the end of **Nature Studies**)_

I'm lying in a hospital, I'm pinned against the bed,  
A stethoscope upon my heart, a hand against my head;  
They're peeling off the bandages, I'm wincing in the light,  
Igor's looking anxious, the nurse is quivering with fright!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!

The doctors are avoiding me, my vision is confused;  
I wait for things to settle down, I catch up on the news.  
A killer bioartificed, she donates her sight to science;  
I was booked into a private ward, I realise that I  
Must be looking through Madame Two-Swords's eyes!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!  
I'm looking through Madame Two-Swords' eyes!

_With apologies to the Adverts for what I have done to their song,** "Looking Through Gary Gilmour's Eyes"**, _

_**Prologue: **During the recapture of loose wild animals in Hide Park (covered in my fic **Nature Studies**) student Assassin Catherine Perry-Bowen lost both eyes and suffered serious facial damage when attacked by a rogue baboon. She was taken to the Watch Igor and the Guild's Matron Igorina for medical attention. She has awoken from deep anaesthesia to realise, to her surprise and joy, she has not been blinded for life. The teachers who sent her on the mission where she was grievously wounded are pleased and reassured. Until Igorina drops the bombshell that there just might be unpredictable side-effects of the read on:- _

Madame Deux-Epées frowned, thinking of the Perry-Bowen girl, and the dreadful circumstances that had led to her injuries. It was only right that the Guild should do all in its power to remedy the situation and help restore her to normal. A discreet donation of several thousand dollars had been paid to the Lady Sybil in recognition of the medical treatment given. As Catherine had been part of a working party sent out to perform a mission in service of the City under Guild direction, she understood Lord Vetinari had contributed a sum of money to her treatment costs, insisting on discreet silence. He had requested to be kept fully informed concerning the new and largely unproven Igor technique of bio-artificing replacement body parts. As Johanna Smith-Rhodes had been leading the mission, and she, Emmanuelle Lapoignard les Deux-Epées, had been in immediate charge of Catherine and others during an attack by maddened and enraged baboons wanting to play catch-up for indignities inflicted by the human race, both Assassins had contributed large sums to the pot. _Nobless oblige_, after all.

_At least the girl has received a miracle, _she thought_. I saw her face after that accursed creature attacked her. To have the damage so skilfully repaired leaving only bare traces. And of course to receive new eyes. Formidable! Surely the benefits will far outweigh any little problems that may arise? _

Emmanuelle sincerely hoped so. She looked across the Black Widow House office to where the stuffed baboon stood, one she had slain herself on that dreadful day. Johanna, out of some robust Rimwards Howandalandian sense of humour, had retrieved the body and sent it to a taxidermist with instructions to pose the preserved creature appropriately. Now it was forever frozen in an attack posture, jaws gaping and fangs bared, facing the door through which students entered, by invitation. It was a useful educational tool and reminded students that the potential hazards of a career in Assassination took many forms. And a reminder that their Housemistress was a woman not to be trifled with or made angry. _Bon. _

She made a mental note to cover it up when Catherine returned to the school, lest the sight of it provoked unfortunate reactions. Such a creature had nearly killed her, after all. The child could be warned, and acclimatised to it gently. It might, in the right circumstances, be good therapy.

She recalled her sense of horror and alarm when the Watch Igor had asked her – with diffident and self-effacing charm, certainly – if he could take tissue samples from her eyes. Emmanuelle had hit the roof, a reaction only partially assuaged when Igor had explained that from a few living cells, he could replicate exact, living, copies of her own eyes so as to transplant them into Catherine. Reflecting that this might well mean the girl's sword-drills could only get better, she had agreed, and steeled herself.

The actual process had been anti-climactic. Igor had dipped a cotton bud into some nameless clear fluid that, by the smell, might have begun its life as surgical alcohol. Other fluids had clearly been introduced to the alcohol and had started a party. She did not inquire. Forcing herself to keep her eyes open, there had been in instant of slight discomfort, repeated once as Igor diligently dropped each swab into a seperate bottle, marked with her name, the date, and either "Sinister" or "Dexter".

"This is important, madame." Igor had said. "Instal the wrong eye on the wrong side and the patient is instantly rendered cross-eyed. That will not do."

"Assuredly."she had replied. Igors were scupulously careful about these things. A man who had fallen feet-first into a sawmill might get totally mismatched feet. But at least each would be on the correct leg. Idly, she speculated on the other thing people said about Igors, which was either whispered or hinted at among well-brought up ladies, or else loudly and shriekingly speculated about by the same well-brought-up ladies, after the seventh quaff of something strong when on a night of _minge-drinking_.

_Zut alors, it makes great sense. If all men were like Igors and could replace or enhance body parts at will, we would live in a world where stallions would look at men and express envy._

She filed the thought away for consideration at leisure later – the same thing was whispered about concerning dwarfs, and she was not in a great fever to sleep with one, at least not just yet**(1)** – and went back to the job she had to do.

Several weeks later, after a delicate and emotional discussion with the Perry-Bowen parents, who had given informed consent to further Igor operations on their daughter, Emmanuelle had visited the Watch Igor. She was grudgingly allowed access to the Watch House by Commander Vimes, who still could not reconcile himself to the fact the Watch had failed narrowly to detain her for multiple killings, and that she had obtained immunity from prosecution by joining the Assassin.**(2)**. That a former criminal suspect could walk into the Yard with impunity grated on him, but Vimes had also been present at the Urban Safari,**(3)**, where Watchmen and Assassins, uniquely, had co-operated for the common good. She suspected Vimes, one of whose Watchmen had also been injured, in this case gored by a bewildebeeste, had also given generously to Catherine's hospital treatment. He was that sort of man – although he loathed Assassins on principle, he was not above quixotic gestures of this sort.

Emmanuelle smiled at her reception by the Watch, and let herself be escorted down into the cellar by Sergeant Littlebottom. The dwarf chatted cheerfully as they descended to what was definitely the Watch Igor's department.

"Don't be put off by anything you see." Cheery reassured her. "Some of it is actually quite interesting, if you can get past the pancreatic glands."

"Isn't the phrase usually _get past the pineapple_, Cherie(**4)**?"

The dwarf shook her head.

"Not with Igors." she replied.

Cheery showed her to a door marked "Forensic Department and Mortuary". She knocked, announced a guest, and they entered into a place of gently bubbling, steaming, fermenting, and often disconcertingly mobile, things, not all of which were in jars. Emmanuelle froze in front of wire cages in which recognisable rats and mice were running around. Some of the mice were pretty near bald and had...ears... grafted to their backs. _Human_ ears.

"The line is breeding true now." Igor said, from behind her. She jumped: she hadn't heard him move. "Genetics is not as deterministic as people think it is."

"They are _born_ with those ears?" Emmanuelle said, surprised.

"They are now, yes." said Igor. "Attaching them to living mice keeps the tissues warm and alive until they are required."

"So I perceive." she said. Emmanuelle had heard Matron Igorina had been allocated a lavish cellar at the Guild, a couple of floors underneath the School Sanitorium. This was an accepted fringe benefit to offer an Igor working for you. She had never been down there and now had no immediate plans to do so.

"Tea or coffee?" Igor asked. Emmanuelle looked at Cheery, who grinned.

"It's perfectly safe." the dwarf assured her. "That's _all_ you'll get in the cup."

"Or I could do some _splot_?" Igor offered.

Cheery shook her head.

"Whatever you do, do _not_ drink the splot." she advised the Assassin. "Stick to coffee."

Emmanuelle stuck to coffee. She'd heard about _splot_. Doktor von Graumunchen, a Überwaldean teacher at the Guild, referred to it a the sort of heroic remedy you treated with respect, and only employed to drag the last few ounces of strength up out of a failing body in desperate circumstances. Mr Mericet treated it as a poison, pure and simple, and stressed its deleterious effect on a weak or ailing heart.

It was actually surprisingly good coffee. The three made incongruous small-talk for a while, made surrealistic by the location – a deep cellar under Pseudopolis Yard, lined with jars and iceboxes full of nameless and possibly independently sentient things. It didn't help, Emmanuelle reflected, that they were sitting round a mortuary slab which had thick leather retaining straps just where you'd expect someone's wrists and ankles to go. In the background, a mysterious large black metal box with dials on the front gently crackled and sizzled, occasionally emanating a clear blue flash like a scaled-down lightning bolt. Emmanuelle watched it warily, noting it had a great big red lever on one side, currently set to the OFF position. A large thick cable led off into the ceiling. Incongruously, a doiley'd tea-tray bearing a china pot, milk, sugar and perfectly normal teacups currently sat on the makeshift table.

Finally, they got round to Catherine Perry-Bowen's treatment.

" I have conferred with Igorina and with Igor at the Lady Thybil." he said. "We are agreed that she will benefit from new eyeth. This ith, of courthe, a highly experimental prothedure and hath only ever been performed oncthe before. But the previouth patient recovered completely and I foresee no complications. Let me show you."

Igor stood up and lurched very slightly to the shelves. He paused, selected two large jars, and brought them back to the slab. The jars seemed to have the strangest goldfish she had ever seen in her life swimming in them.

"Allow me, Madame Deux-Epées, to introduce you to your eyes."

She had a strange moment of appalled fascination as the globular white things in the jar, streaked with red and trailing some sort of grey-brown tail, seemed to recognise her presence and swam to the side of their jars nearest to her. There were about ten in each jar. And as one eyeball, they each turned a perfect blue-green iris up to her...

"Ah. It'th a wise child who knows who her mummy ith." said Igor, contentedly. Emmanuelle felt queasy. Very queasy.

Igor had called it _cellular memory_. It did not mean they were _sentient_ as we know it. The stuff of which the bioartificed eyes were made had simply been attracted to the larger biomass of which they had once been part, from which their parent cells had been seperated. That was all and nothing to be concerned about.

But Emmanuelle could not help but think of a congregation worshipping the Goddess who had created them. An image of the eyeball-peoples' creating a religion and a creation myth about the Creator rose in her mind. Part of it made her smile. It was interesting to be a Goddess, albeit a small one, the Goddess of Bioartificed Eyeballs.

She wondered, uneasily, what the Great God Blind Io thought about humans replicating eyeballs at will . Igors counted as human, just about – or maybe _too_ human. The last thing she wanted was to be the recipient of a gift-wrapped bespoke thunderbolt. And Io would surely have an opinion. Eyeballs were his _thing_, after all. And a newly-minted Goddess of the Eyeball people, especially a self-proclaimed one, even ironically so, would _certainly_ attract divine attention. She would ask her colleague Alice Band to wangle an appointment with her uncle, the Chief Priest Hughnon Ridcully.

Emmanuelle returned to the Guild, lost in thought.**(5)**

* * *

And Catherine Perry-Bowen was discharged from hospital and returned to the Guild School. She tried to discreetly sign in at the Porters' Lodge, where the duty porter asked about her health.

"I'm perfectly well now, thank you, Mr Maroon." she assured him.

Maroon nodded.

"Igors are amazing, aren't they. Miss? I'm glad to see you back. I know some of the other young ladies and gentlemen were concerned for you and asked if I'd heard anything."

Then he looked into her face, and reflexively stepped back, his eyes widening.

"Is here anything wrong, Mr Maroon?" she asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her scars.

"No, miss. But looking at your eyes, I could have sworn just for a moment I was looking at.."

He composed himself. "No hurry, but Madame Deux-Epées asked if you could drop by and have a word with her. When you've settled back in, that is."

Catherine smiled and acknowledged him, then went up to her dorm in Raven House. School was in session, and few people were about, mainly Guild servants. Wondering if she ought to be in a classroom and feeling oddly disorientated, she sat on her bed in the empty dorm and took stock. She noticed the bed had been stripped and all her possessions had been packed away, as if Mrs Spiracule the bedder had been instructed she was never going to return. To while away the time, she unpacked her things and put them back where she wanted them, then went to find Mrs Spiracule's bedding store. Expertly picking the lock, she helped herself to sheets, pillowcases and one of the duvets that were only ever issued as privileges to Sixth Form girls.

Making her bed and ensuring the contraband duvet was hidden under a top blanket, Catherine wondered. She was usually fairly law-abiding and respectful of the School Rules, wasn't she? So why had she just broken up to five school rules at once? And why wasn't she feeling in the least bit guilty about it? She was only making sure she was comfortable, after all, and winter would soon be here. You had to look to your own comfort first.

She sighed and went to the Black Widow House senior common room. She made coffee – again a senior privilege – and waited for the school day to end. There was no point in going to the office to see Madame Two-Swords just yet; she was probably taking a class. Catherine had heard about the new City Zoo and Miss Smith-Rhodes part in establishing it. She knew student Assassins were already going on working parties there. Again she wondered. Before the... event... she'd been a keen volunteer at the Animal Management Unit and had loved her lessons in Nature Studies and zoology. Right now she just felt, well, _indifferent_ about it all. She picked up a long practice sword somebody had left. She struck a fencing pose and dummied a few thrusts and parries. _Now this was what it was all about!_

Later on, her particular friends in the Fifth Form returned to the dorm. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then there were cheers and hugs and tears. Catherine shared a small dorm with the eleven other girls from Black Widow House who had elected to stay on after the end of the fourth year and take Black. It had stunned and shocked the others that one of their number had gone so early on in their training to become Full Assassins. The mood had been low and morale had fallen. But they had come to realise their training was for real and people would inevitably flunk out – and flunking out of Assassin School at this stage was no small thing. They had speculated, gloomily, on how many of the original twelve would still be there in three years' time, when they came to do the Final Run.

But they were now twelve again, at least for now.

Catherine basked in the warmth ad the adulation and "welcome back!" hugs, even from people she normally did not get on with all that well. And then Chaka N'Golate looked closely at her as if she was puzzled by something.

"Cethy," she said, uncertainly. "I em certain your eyes were _brown_?"

Catherine shrugged.

"Maybe the Igors didn't match the colours properly." she said. "I'm just glad they're working!"

A worrying thought intruded.

"Chakkie" she asked the Howondalandian girl, "_Please_ tell me they're both the same colour?"

Chaka laughed. "They're _both_ a nice shade. And the _same_ shade. It isn't quite green and isn't quite blue. I think only Madame Two-Swords has eyes that colour, it's quite rare!"

* * *

_**Some Weeks Later.**_

_**The Book of Common Prayer, Uncommon Prayer, Downright Strange Prayers, and Just Plain Screaming For Help.**_

_**(Extract)**_

Approved for use in all Temples of the Orthodox Worship of the Great God Blind Io._ (Excluding the Kerrigian Reformed Church of Io in Rimwards Howondaland)_

_**Imprimatur: **Bishop A.G.M. Band, D. Div., ., of the Diocese of Quirm_

_**certificatae sine pecado **His Holiness The Chief Priest of Ankh Morpork, the Extremely Reverend Hughnon Ridcully, D.D, , B.C.C., B.S.S. _

_Service Of Octeday Worship, (excluding All Fallows, Soul Cake Day if it fall on an Octeday, Hogswatch)._

_**Celebrant: **_We may now sing the great hymn of praise unto Blind Io.

_**Congregation: **_Blessed be the name of Io!

_(Musicians present may take up the tune by Grimond, or the variant anthem attributed to the Rev. Roeser and the Rev. Bloom)._

_**Celebrant: (spoken) **_Thus speaketh the word of Io.

_**Congregation: **_Blessed be the name of Blind Io!

_**Celebrant: (sung)**_

_Harvester of eyes, that's me!  
And I see all there is to see;  
When I look inside your head,  
Right up front to the back of your skull..._

**_Celebrant and Congregation: _(sung response) **

_Well, that's my sign that you are dead!  
My list for you checks off as null!  
I'm the harvester of eyes! _

_**Celebrant: (sung) **_Harvester of eyes, that's me;

_**Congregation: **_**(sung response) **(harvester of eyes!)  
_**Celebrant: (sung) **_And I see all there is to see!

_**Congregation: **_**(sung response) **(harvester of eyes!)  
_**Celebrant: (sung) **_When I look inside your head;

_**Congregation: **_**(sung response) **(harvester of eyes!)  
_**Celebrant: (sung) **_Right up front to the back of your skull !

_**Congregation: **_**(sung response) **(harvester of eyes!)

_**Celebrant: (sung) **_Harvester of eyes!

_**The celebrant priest may now don the Ceremonial Rubber Apron and move towards the Ritual of Sacrifice. Altar servants (male or female) should be standing by with the Offering of Eyeballs unto the God. (Whether or not at this point they are still attached to the sacrifical animal is at the discretion of the Celebrant Priest). Solemn music may play...**_

Catherine Perry-Bowen turned her own eyes away from the hymnal and looked moodily out of the Chapel window. Octeday Service was compulsory for all School students. At least, with so many approved religions to fit in, it only lasted for three-quarters of an hour; the Omnians got the chapel first, and the Offlerians immediately afterwards. It didn't leave "Black Mass", the School Chaplain, very long to fit in a service and a sermon, but Canon Clement was adept at keeping it short and meaningful.

She had heard that human eyeballs had been the approved offering in the really old days. But things had moved on since then. The Chaplain usually got a pair of fresh-ish sheep's eyes from the kitchen meat store and made do with them. She looked over to where Miss Band was sitting, swinging the foot of her crossed leg as if displacing something, or at the very least displaying imatience to be somewhere else. Alice Band looked deliberately unreadable and slightly irritated. Catherine reflected that as the daughter of the man who wrote the Ionian Order of Service, she could hardly claim _not_ to be of the Ionian faith. She wondered what it was like to be daughter of a Bishop. _Probably really grim. _

Catherine speculated about _eyes_ for a while, tuning out the sacrifice and the sermon. It had been a few weeks now, but people still tended to look her in the face and seem worried or consternated, as if they were seeing something strange they couldn't work out.

_What is it about these eyes! _she wondered. Something had changed. She was not certain what. But strange things had begun to happen to her...

* * *

_To be continued in part three in which the mystery further deepens..._

**(1) **Human women only became really attractive to Dwarfs if they were over seventy, had allowed their bodies to re-smould themselves into a comfortable shape, and for preference had developed the right sort of old-lady wispy beard. Refer to Casanunder and Nanny Ogg's courtship. Emmanuelle had heard of this, and had decided it was a treat to store up for her old age when she had lost her appeal to human males.

**(2) **See my fic **_The Graduation Class, _**which tells Emannuelle's backstory.

**(3) **Refer to my story **_Nature Studies, _**to which this is a sort of sequel.

**(4)** In this case the capital letter and no italics are gramattically and strylistically correct.

**(5)** Normally being lost in thought and self-absorbed on an Ankh-Morpork street is a surefire way of committing Suicide. But people in Assassin black who carry swords and look as if they aren't there for decoration get a bye.

* * *

_**More Bonus Lyrics**_

The _other_ meme that came to mind while writing this short; I've already adapted part of this song as a part of the religious order of service in the Temple of Blind Io.It's from the Blue Öyster Cult's 1973 album,_**Secret Treaties. **__(Old rocker. Showing his age.)_

Harvester of eyes, that's me!  
And I see all there is to see;  
When I look inside your head,  
Right up front to the back of your skull...

Well, that's my sign that you are dead!  
My list for you checks off as null!  
I'm the harvester of eyes!

I'm the eyeman of TV;  
With my ocular TB;  
I need all the peepers I can find;  
Inside the barn where you find the hay...

Just last week I took a ride,  
So high on eyes I almost lost my way,  
I'm the harvester of eyes...  
[ Lyr  
Harvester of eyes, that's me; (harvester of eyes!)  
And I see all there is to see (harvester of eyes!)  
When I look inside your head (harvester of eyes!)  
Right up front to the back of your skull (harvester of eyes!)

Harvester of eyes!

My-my-my-my-my  
My-my-my-my-my  
My-my-my-my-my-my  
I'm the harvester of eyes  
I'm just walkin' down the street  
I see a garbage can, I pick it up  
I look through all the garbage  
To see if there are any eyes inside  
I'll put 'em in my pink leather bag  
And take all their eye balls  
And I bleed with 'em  
As I plead with their eyes all night  
So if you see me walkin' down the street  
You'd better get out of the way  
And put on your eye glasses  
'cause I'm gonna take your eyes home with me


	3. When I look Inside Your Head

_**Looking Through Fresh Eyes: Swords and Spiders.**_

_(Tying up a dangling loose end left loose at the end of **Nature Studies**)_

Yet an_other_ meme that I re-acquainted myself with while writing this short; on Alice Cooper's critically acclaimed album _**Welcome to my Nightmare, **_apart from the brilliant _**Only Women Bleed, **_the sick and very very funny_** Cold Ethyl **_**(1)**_**, **_and a rafter of creepy-but-brilliant songs, there is this –_** the Black Widow. **_Alert readers with good memories will recall where Johanna Smith-Rhodes' dialogue came from in_** Nature Studies, **_when introducing Emmanuelle to the spiders in the Animal Management Unit. Only this time in a rather camp American accent, and not Rimwards Howondalandian.

**Prologue: from Alice Cooper's _Welcome to My Nightmare_**

_(Vincent Price, the Zoo Curator, speaks)_  
Leaving _lepidoptera_... Please, don't touch the display,  
little boy! Ha, ha, cute! Moving to the next aisle we have  
_**Arachnida,**_ the spiders, our...finest collection.  
This friendly little devil is the _heptothilidi,_  
unfortunately harmless. Next to him, the nasty _Lycosa  
Raptoria,_ her tiny fangs cause creeping ulcerations of  
the skin _(laugh)_. And here, my prize, the _**Black  
Widow.**_ Isn't she lovely?...And so deadly. Her kiss is  
fifteen times as poisonous as that of the rattlesnake.  
You see her venom is highly neurotoxic, which is to say  
that it attacks the central nervous system causing  
intense pain, profuse sweating, difficulty in  
breathing, loss of consciousness, violent convulsions  
and, finally...Death. You know what I think I love the  
most about her is her inborn need to _dominate_,  
_Possess_. In fact, immediately after the consummation  
of her marriage to the smaller and weaker male of the  
species she kills and eats him..._(laughs)_ Oh, she is  
delicious..._(snide aside) _And I hope he was! _(grows more manic and Igor-employer-like)_

Such power and dignity...unhampered by sentiment.

If I may put forward a slice of personal philosophy,

I feel that Man has ruled this world as a stumbling demented child-king long enough! And as his empire crumbles, my precious Black  
Widow shall rise as his most fitting successor!

_(Alice Cooper speaks)_ These words he speaks are true.  
We're all humanary stew; if  
We don't pledge allegiance to...  
The Black Widow!

The terror that she brings!  
The horror of her sting!  
The unholiest of kings -  
The Black Widow

Our minds will be her toy;  
And every girl and boy

will learn to be employed by  
The Black Widow!

Love me,  
Yes we love me;  
Love him,  
Yes we love him;  
Love her,  
Yes we love her;  
Love She,  
Yes we love her...

She sits upon her throne, and picks at all the bones,

of her Husbands and her  
Wives she's devoured;

She stares with a gleam,  
With a laugh so obscene,

at the virgins and the children  
She's deflowered!

Love me,  
Yes we love me;  
Love him,  
Yes we love him;  
Love her,  
Yes we love her;  
Love She,  
Yes we love her...

Our thoughts are hot and crazed;  
Our brains are webbed in haze;  
Of mindless senseless days;  
The Black Widow!

These words he speaks are true!  
We're all humanary stew!  
If we don't pledge allegiance to -  
The Black Widow!

_**Now read on...**_

Several weeks passed. Outwardly, nothing obvious happened to alert staff at the Assassins' School that there were any complications with Catherine.

Emmanuelle was covertly observing for anything out of the ordinary or that would give concern, but as the weeks went past, she relaxed, daring to hope the risk had passed.

Emmanuelle was not a slack or negligient Housemistress. But she preferred to manage Black Widow House with a light touch of the tiller, fostering a relaxed and easy-going atmosphere with the absolute minimum of formal discipline. This was not to say she could not impose order and chastisement where necessary, but it was rare for a Black Widow girl to end up tapping the boards in the Mistress's office. She only enforced the rules – with vigour and necessary stern-ness – when no other alternative presented itself.

The result was a House where the resident tutor was respected and well-liked, if not adored by the more impressionable girls. Student Assassins under the more austere care of Alice Band or Joan Sanderson-Reeves or Lady T'Malia looked to their more fortunate contemporaries in Black Widow with envy and longing.

Catherine's formal return-to-school interview had been brief and swiftly concluded. Madame Deux-Epées had completed the paperwork swiftly and tidily, while Catherine looked at the nearly human-sized but white shrouded Something with interest. She had been warned by Chaka N'Golate and the others what it was: Catherine felt gratitude to her Housemistress for her thought and consideration. She wasn't nearly ready to contemplate baboons again.

"And how do you feel, _ma petite_?" Madame Deux-Epées asked her, with sympathy and concern. "Should you wish to leave the School and drop out of the Black after your recent experience, nobody will blame you. Students have left the Black Years for less and with lesser injuries."

Catherine shook her head.

"I am fit, Madame, and well. My riding teacher taught me many years ago that when you fall off a horse, you must get back into the saddle at the earliest opportunity. Please, Madame, I wish to get back into the saddle again, in a manner of speaking!"

Emmanuelle smiled and extended her hand.

"Then I am pleased and honoured to be a part of your continuing education!" she said. "Your attitude does you credit. Now..."

She consulted the school timetable in front of her.

"Tomorrow, you would first have a lesson in Advanced Quirmian with Monsieur LeBalouard." she noted. "_Bon_, that will be a physically undemanding start to your return to school. Following on, you are timetabled for a lesson in Basic Exothermic Alchemy with Miss Smith-Rhodes. I understand this will be basic theory and classroom-based. After lunch... ah, this may pose an issue. Your class is scheduled to attend the new City Zoo for a working lesson. I feel perhaps I should consult with Miss Smith-Rhodes and have you excused from Zoo duties for a period? That would be for the best, I think. And your last lesson in the afternoon is Music. I believe you play the virginal and the harpsichord? _Eh bien. _And in the evening period, you will study Applied Vindictive Theology and Localised Immanetization of the Eschaton **(2)** with Canon Clement."

Emmanuelle smiled.

"_Très bon!" _she said. "You are fortunate, _ma petite. _This is as near to an undemanding day as this school ever offers. A gentle return, yes? I will speak to the members of staff involved to say you will be returning to classes. Miss Smith-Rhodes will, _sans doute_, find you an alternative to going to the Zoo. You are not too disappointed, I hope?"

Catherine shook her head.

"At some point, Madame, I should like to see and participate in caring for the animals we recaptured on ...that day. But... " her glance took in the white-shrouded Something, "...not _just_ yet, I think."

Emmanuelle nodded, understanding.

"The new Zoo accommodates living specimens of those filthy accursed _sales_ _singes_." she said. "It may be too much for you at present."

* * *

And now, several weeks further on, Catherine was to be found, very nervously, just about to resume her course in Nature Studies (For Assassins). This took her to the Animal Management Unit, a purpose-built facility on Short Street, just a short stroll from the Guild. Senior students were trusted to move between the various School sites on their own, without escort or close observation. She had walked round in the company of Chaka N'Golate, a cheerful Howondalandian girl who had received praise and guild thanks for her conduct on the Urban Safari in Hide Park, the same one that had left Catherine grievously hurt.

"I suppose I was lucky. I knew just whet to do with the lions." Chaka said, modestly. "Just before I left Home to come here to study, some of the boys from my kraal were being prepared for their initiation into menhood. The Witch-Finder was teaching them the rituals involved in the lion-hunt. It was strictly taboo for women or girls to be there, but I didn't see why, end I _really_ wanted to become a warrior like them. So I concealed myself behind a baobab and some thornbush end watched them. They shipped me off to Ankh-Morpork _really quickly _after that!"

Catherine laughed appreciatively.

"But I think about what had happened to _you_, end I think: it could have gone the other way, and I could have ended up on sale et Harry King's for two dollars a bucket. Eventually."

Catherine noticed that after five years in Ankh-Morpork, her friend's Howondalandian accent was fading and a distinct Morporkian tone was creeping in. _But then, she was only eleven when she arrived here. _

And then there was the A.M.U., a modern building, strictly functional and without much external ostentation. From the outside it looked like a factory or a warehouse. But the sounds and smells suggested a city farm, or a small menagerie. The building was on three floors to best utilise the site, and the roof was flat. This was intentional: the roof gardens and greenhouses were used to cultivate the _very_ special and _exotic_ sort of plants that the Assassins' Guild had always taken a botanical interest in.

The basement largely housed storage facilities, most of the Aquarium for river and sea lifeforms, and for those species of animals and plants which were nocturnal, from the very deepest seas (in pressurised tanks) or simply not tolerant of too much daylight. The Guild was interested in quite a lot of these.

On the ground floor, the space was exclusively taken up by animal habitats, vivariums, cages, tanks and the Aviary. In fact, it looked as if the building were built around the Aviary, whose cages soared through all three floors and up through the roof. This allowed the captive birds a necessary and important third dimension of height, and they could be observed from all three lower floors and on the roof.

More animal habitats and tanks existed on the second floor, but here part of the space was taken up with laboratories, demonstration rooms, storerooms and classrooms. On the top floor, there were more classrooms and lecture rooms, as well as supporting infrastructure. Clever design allowed rainwater landing on the roof, where it did not nourish the plants, to run down collecting channels and to be collected in a large tank on the third floor for use elsewhere in the building. It rained a lot in Ankh-Morpork: running out of water was not normally a problem.

Finally, there was a small courtyard outside allowing for Doctor Davinia Bellamy's Maximum Security greenhouses and hothouses, where the more _restive_ and _troublesome_ examples of Mother Nature's floral bounty were imprisoned. Only those students trained and experienced in threatening the plants were allowed in here, and then only in pairs, and then only when wearing protective clothing.

As Doctor Davinia Bellamy _(PhD, Brin)_ pointed out to her students, this was Botany and Ecology for _Assassins. _

Her students respected her. She had no House or form responsibilities, but had a healthy appreciation of the way young peoples' minds worked due to her being one half of a happy marriage with three children. Like Emmanuelle, she had joined the Guild one step ahead of a hotly pursuing Watch, judging it to be the lesser of two evils. A successful businesswoman and florist, she still owned two florists' shops and several street-traders' rounds. But her encyclopaedic knowledge of plants and flowers had enabled her to perform additional services for clients. Specifically, clients with abusive or dangerous husbands. For a fee, Davinia would send round a _special_ bouquet or floral tribute, perhaps built around a Howondalandian Death Lily or Cyanic Tulips from Sto Kerrig.

Davinia knew the language of flowers. She could say "_Drop Dead_!" in a dozen inventive ways. Which is why the Guild had snapped her up and made her an Offer. **(3)**

The two girls reported to Davinia Bellamy. Johanna Smith-Rhodes, the principal staff member of the Natural History department, was up at the Zoo, getting things together for its Grand Opening.

"I'm so glad you're back!" Doctor Bellamy said, with a wide open smile. She looked her pupil full in the face and frowned slightly. Catherine was used to this sort of thing by now. But she still sighed with resignation.

"You used to have brown eyes, didn't you? But that's not important. Just thank the Gods you have got eyes again! Now where shall we start... it's important, I think, to bring you back into animal handling gently. "

Doctor Bellamy looked down and read a clipboard.

"Let me see... ah, yes. We've got some routine tasks to do in Arachnida. Nothing especially interesting, I'm afraid. The sort of run-of-the-mill routine things that need to be done. Arachne Webber's been stepped up to Teaching Assistant for today, so she'll direct you!"

Arachne Webber was a final-year student who was on the point of doing her Final Run. Catherine thought she was slightly weird. Arachne had been keen on Nature Studies practically ever since her first day at the School. In particular, she was keen on one particular animal to the point of obsession. When Miss Smith-Rhodes had won her Animal Management Unit several years earlier, Arachne had taken to it like... well, a spider to a web. She had studied and researched and experimented and observed and read – to the point where even Johanna Smith-Rhodes could say, without jealousy, that Arachne's specialist knowledge of spiders far outstripped her own. Johanna was quietly proud of Arachne. She had arranged for her pupil to have occasional Teaching Assistant status in her speciality, and had put the word about that whenever Arachne was wearing the purple and white sash, she was to be addressed as Miss Webber and given the same respect as any other member of teaching staff. Any insult, insubordination or indiscipline towards Miss Webber would be treated as if it was an act of insult, insubordination or indiscipline towards herself, Miss Smith-Rhodes.

This was rare, and required special permission from Lord Downey and Lady T'Malia; but both agreed that an exceptional student, respected by her peers, with an area of expertise that now went way past her teacher's not inconsiderable knowledge, was an asset who required special nurturing.

Johanna had been trying to get her star pupil interested in becoming Curator of Arachnia after she graduated, dividing her time between the Zoo and the A.M.U., and holding full Teacher status at the Guild School. Arachne was flattered by the job offer but non-committal, replying, tactfully, that while she felt honoured, she was rather inclined to take a gap year after graduating. Perhaps to travel to Rimwards Howondaland or even to Fourecks do field study and research. Naturally, Miss Smith-Rhodes would be first in line to receive her research notes.

Johanna had also heard that Lord Vetinari himself, who had granted the A.M.U. the lucrative contracts to supply snakes, spiders and scorpions to the Palace dungeons, had requested copies of Arachne's research papers "for his own interest". She had sighed, philosophically, realising there was a possibility she might lose Arachne Webber to Palace service. **(4)**

Catherine walked round to Arachnia, wondering why she was suddenly feeling queasy and her heart was racing. She'd always felt at home in the aisles of the A.M.U., with their familiar sights, the background smells of several thousand animals in their respective habitats, designed to be as much Home to the creatures as possible, with all the scuttling, slithering, chittering and scratching noises , the timbre and quality of which subtly altered as she moved around. She paused at Entomology **(5)**, the study of insects, to gather her thoughts and calm herself. She watched the activity in a colony of Hersheban Lawyer Beetles, which were part of a long-term breeding and research program. The Lawyer Beetle had a very precise internal body clock. It had long been noted that the creature performed a somersault at precisely three in the afternoon every day. This had been used by the Guild of Clockmakers to create an amusing novelty clock.**(6)**

Johanna Smith-Rhodes had seen the exciting possibility that the Lawyer Beetle might be employed as fuse and detonator on an Exothermic Alchemy charge, if the contract called for a really precisely timed explosion.**(7)** It just needed selective breeding to create beetles that could be preset to _any _time of day or night. A colony of Bombardier Beetles were nearby. They were even_ more_ exciting, but had to be kept in a specially reinforced habitat.**(8)**

Catherine gathered her breath, with an effort, and walked on to report to Miss Webber. She wondered why her body was twanging with alarm and her heart was still pounding. She'd never felt this way in the A.M.U. before. She turned the aisle into Arachnia, with a great effort, trying not to touch nor even to look at the displays. And there was Arachne Webber, with her long angular legs and arms and slightly bulbous pear-shaped body. It wasn't unattractive or ugly, but she seemed made out of limbs. It was as if the legs from one woman had been grafted onto the body of another and the two didn't _quite_ match up. She seemed at first to have more limbs – _and eyes_ – than the average person. Men felt distinctly uncomfortable in her presence, even if they didn't know she was an Assassin. She had a very wide mouth and a smile that almost seemed predatory. On concealment lessons, her tutors had noticed she could freeze absolutely still and hold the position for incredible lengths of time. She had experimented with ropes and cords covered in glue as a means of setting a trap. The more the victim struggled, the more deeply mired they got. It had earned her full marks for inventiveness. Rumour had it that she routinely dipped her daggers in potions of her own devising. Her teachers in Concealment, Traps and Poisons adored her for these qualities.

Catherine knew that in person, Arachne could be pleasant and personable. (although she was not a person to get on the wrong side of.) Standing in the aisle, suddenly aware of spiders all around her, thousands of the creatures, _milles des araignées, _spiders everywhere. She froze solid, heart pounding, unable to move forward or back. Sheer panic made her quake and shudder and she felt herself wobbling. She was dimly aware of Chakkie calling _"Cethy? Cethy? What's wrong?" _from a long distance away. And Miss Arachne Webber was also running to her, those long stilt-like legs propelling her with ease and speed. Miss Band loved Arachne for her wall-climbing skills, she recalled. Catherine had a last fleeting thought about Arachne Webber in a skin-tight silver lamé dress and some sort of mask. Spider-webs radiated above and behind and to both sides of her, a tracery of filigree'd silver. _I must be delirious, _she thought. _But the spiders are coming for me..._

Doctor Bellamy took one look and sent a junior student running back to the Guild with instructions to get Matron Igorina. In the meantime Catherine was lying down in the quiet room, the place Davinia had set aside for students who were overcome or had got over-emotional concerning some of the things they were asked to do in the normal course of events at the A.M.U. **(9) ** Davinia was a mother: she took pastoral care of the students as a duty. Mumsy and approachable, a friendly face, students sometimes asked her advice on very personal issues.

A mother of sons, she soon realised a lot of the issues were familiar from her own experience, and she gave sound advice and a sympathetic ear. This came in handy on those occasions where a student was in danger of flunking the grading test all student Assassins had to undergo in the A.M.U. Davinia's standard practice, if anyone was unduly distressed at the idea of actually _killing_ an animal, or even if they couldn't bring themselves to perform the standard dissection of an already humanely dispatched rat or a frog that was mandatory in Biology classes, was to allow them space and counselling in the quiet room before bringing them back for another go.**(10) **But at least the Guild frowned upon and did not practice _vivisection._ (at least, unless the contract called for Extreme Prejudice).

But this was new. Igorina had delivered a sedative to calm the girl, who was now in a chemical bliss, half-aware of the conference going on around her.

"It does get some of them like this." said Arachne Webber. She was intellectually aware there was such a thing as arachnophobia. Although she was bang alongside the concept that it was an _irrational_ fear of spiders. She prided herself on being totally rational. And it is well-known fact that on the Disc every thing or concept has its absolute polar opposite. Arachne Webber was the walking embodiment of _arachnophilia. _

"Even so," Davina Bellamy mused, thoughtfully, "Why should it suddenly happen to her _now_? I remember Catherine as a normally well-adjusted young woman with no particular phobia concerning spiders. She just gets on with it, normally, whatever animal or plant you direct her to tend. Or else I would not have sent her to you."

"Sometimes new psychic or physiological dithorders lie latent in the body and mind, and only emerge at puberty." Igorina offered. "Do you remember Angela Carter, from Scorpion Houthe? She was a perfectly unremarkable student until the onset of menarche. Then she developed late-onset lycanthropy. We had to ask the Watch to lend us Sergeant Angua to bring her down and thubdue her."

They remembered. The Guild having inadvertently accepted a werewolf pupil had been _embarrassing_. Angua von Überwald had been unstintingly helpful. As well as detaining Angela, at no small risk to herself, she had asked around the werewolf community and discovered that Angela's maternal grandmother had been a von Nebelhünde, a member of a Clan from beyond Müning. Now all prospective pupils were discreetly requested to furnish proof that, to the best of their knowledge, there was no vampire or werewolf blood in the family history.

"Yes, we were in the company of wolves then, certainly. But Catherine is nearly sixteen." Davinia objected. She regularly counselled girls who had not had the Talk from a sensible female relative and who were consequently appalled at the unexpected things their bodies were doing to them. The upper classes were worst of all at this, considering such things beneath their notice. Davinia and the other female teachers were therefore used to reassuring and educating distressed Venturis, Eorles and Selachiis about beastly, lower-class, things like this.

"It would have emerged a _long_ time before now, surely?"

"We need to monitor this, given her recent trauma." said Igorina. If we return her to the Guild, I will keep her in the sanitorium overnight and observe her condition."

"Hmm." said Davinia. "Do you think there's a connection between this coming on so suddenly and her recent injuries? Although you would have thought _baboons_ would be the trigger, not spiders. That's why Miss Smith-Rhodes is very careful about letting her go to the Zoo. The baboon pack that injured her is in captivity there."

Igorina did not reply, but just looked thoughtful. Davinia noted this for reflection later.

* * *

Another informal conference happened at the Guild, later. Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées and Johanna Smith-Rhodes were called for a chat with Igorina and Arachne, and were briefed on the incident at the A.M.U.

"The very sudden onset of uncontrollable arachnophobia." Emmanuelle mused. "With no previous history as such."

Johanna gave her old friend a long sideways look. A sudden suspicion occurred to her. She did not pursue it, but instead asked

"Erechne. Were eny specific species of spider involved? Where exectly was she stending when the penic hit her?"

An irrelevant thought crossed Arachne's mind; she reflected that Miss Smith-Rhodes would always have trouble with some names, like _Arachne, Ariadne, _or even_ Pamela. _

"She was standing just beside the very large habitat, miss." Arachne replied. "Where we keep the Paraquatian species. The monkey-eating spiders and the larger sloth-eating spider **(11****)**."

Johanna nodded.

"We do not hev spiders thet size in Howondaland." she reflected. "It scared me, the first time I saw it!"

Emmanuelle shuddered. She only rarely went to the A.M.U. After her first visit, she took diligent care to avoid the spiders. Igorina and Johanna both noticed this and while Johanna took care to look away quickly, respecting her friend's confidence and not wanting to expose her weakness, Igorina read the mood and pounced.

"Emmanuelle," Igorina asked, in a _let-me-be-your-friend_ voice. "Is it possible there is something here you have not disclosed to me?"

"Erechne," Johanna said quickly, "Be edvised you ere still only a student. Enything thet mey be disclosed in this room is in complete confidence."

"I understand completely, miss." Arachne replied.

Emmanuelle took a deep breath and composed herself.

"_Bon._" she said. "I find it ironic to an extreme that while I am the housemistress of Black Widow House, a place of study named after a deadly and venomous spider, I have a fear of spiders. My name is Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Epées, countess-in-waiting to the Lapoignard estates, Gambler and Assassin. And I have the arachnophobia.** (12) **_Nom d'un espece d'idiot! Vraiment, je suis hardiment ri sous cape a part des dieux!"_

Igorina took a deep breath. "And your eyes are now Catherine's eyes. _Psychic and pyschological side-effects arising from the bioartificing and transplantation..._"

"So when she sees spiders..." breathed Arachne.

"She responds as you would respond. With rising fear end penic!"

There was silence in the room as the four women began to grasp the implication.

"I can test for this and put it beyond doubt." said Arachne, thoughtfully. "It requires your approval?"

She explained her idea for a conclusive test. Johanna trusted her student absolutely.

"Go on with this. I will make errangements."

The others agreed.

There was another reflective silence.

Emmanuelle broke it.

"I wonder," she said, thoughtfully, "what of me she will manifest next?"

The other three lapsed into thoughtful silence. This was, at the very least, going to be interesting...

* * *

_**To be continued...**_

**(1)** This song is too good to waste. I may well plunder it for another fanfic which is dredged from the depths of my warped and twisted mind. Zombie sex may be involved. Not so much "slashfic" as "bits dropping off"fic.

**(2)** Normally, eschatology deals with the Armageddon and the End of the World. Canon Clement wanted his theology students to contemplate the possibilities inherent in immanetizing (bringing about) a far more _local_ and _personalised _End of the World. Clement, a priest/Assassin, also had a unique take on the Last Rites.

**(3) **See the fic **_Murder Most 'Orrible._**

**(4) **Arachne appears as an incidental character towards the end of the book **_Snuff,_** as a recently qualified Dark Clerk who landed a plum diplomatic assignment to the Embassy in Bugarup, an assignment where she could further her interest in lethal arachnia to her heart's content. Her interest in and knowledge of the Assassin-related uses of spiders is key to delivering justice to Gravid Rust. I've just expanded on her a little. In other writings, I have speculated that she regularly sends samples back to the A.M.U., much to the discomfort of the Post Office. Postmen on the A.M.U. walk go off on hasty grandmothers' funerals, whenever a package arrives from Fourecks with the warning "Live Animals in Transit" written on the outside.

**(5) **Corrections have been made following beta-reading. (Thanks, CarrieVS!) The science of insects is of course** _entomology._ **Sub-divisions include:-

_* Apiology (or melittology) - bees  
* Coleopterology - beetles  
* Dipterology - flies  
* Heteropterology - true bugs  
* Lepidopterology - moths and butterflies  
* Myrmecology - ants  
* Orthopterology - grasshoppers, crickets, etc.  
__* Trichopterology - caddis flie_**_s_**

**(6) **Refer to Terry Pratchett's _**Thief Of Time. **_

**(7) **Being a Rimwards Howondalandian, Johanna had adopted the black humour of her country's Bureau of State Security. BOSS called its bombs "care packages", as receiving one of those really takes care of people. (Really true. BOSS, in the old South Africa, described its use of letter or parcel bombs to "undesirables" in this way.)

**(8) **Here on Roundworld, the Bombardier Beetle is a most interesting, and for rugby-player senses of humour, entertaining, insect. It defends itself by pointing its rear end towards a threat, and, to be blunt, farting in its face with a disproportionately loud noise. Opinion is divided as to whether the noise or the smell deters the predator. The Discworld version fires small pellets of rock-hard excrement, not only following through on the fart but very capable of adding injury to insult. Another accelerated breeding program is under way here to enhance certain Assassin-interesting characteristics, but this requires care, reinforced glass, and breathing masks. Lord Downey has expressed a concern that this might be one step away from _gonnes_, and is monitoring the research. Johanna is again interested in the potential for creating an ecologically sound nature-friendly detonator for Exothermic Alchemy devices.

**(9) **Life goes on, and for life to go on, Death has to happen. See **_the Discworld Tarot, c15, "DEATH", _**for exactly _why_ the A.M.U. has a quiet room and why sometimes the more sensitive students needed to be sent there.

**(10) ** Somebody had to perform the humane killing of rats and frogs that was necessary to provide corpses to dissect. Some students got unduly attached to the lab animals that were bred for this purpose, having nurtured them from birth to inhumation. And virtually all the predatory species preferred live food. A grading task of Assassin students was for them to introduce a live mouse or rat to, say, a tank of pirhanas, or a large snake's herpetorium, or to the Pyramid Strangler Vine, and then to stand and watch what inevitably happened next. It was held to be a neatly expedient method of introducing young Assassins to the process of death, and hardening them to initiating and witnessing the death process. And older students on the Wilderness Survival Course had a grading test where they had to kill a live rabbit. The alternative, miles away from the City, was to go hungry. The principle was the same and it was also assessed by teacher-Assassins.

**(11) **The sloth is slow to realise it is being eaten and is even slower in reacting. Often they don't wake up at all, which suits the rather lazy and laid-back sloth-eating spider perfectly. One of the larger arachnids on the Disc, the sloth-eating spider does not weave a web so much as a hammock. Any sloth who can't be bothered with the physical exertion involved in hanging upside-down from a branch will find the idea of curling up in a nice soft hammock to be irresistible.

**(12) **Ankh-Morpork has self-help groups for just about every phobia imaginable. Arachnophobics Anonymous met at a rented room in the unfortunately named Shelob Alley. Emmanuelle had attended, strictly anonymously.


	4. From up Front to the Back of your Skull

_**Looking Through Fresh Eyes 4: From The Front To the Back Of Your Skull**_

_(Tying up a dangling loose end left hanging at the end of **Nature Studies**)_

Returning, or even retuning, to the story.

Looking for more slightly sinister eye-related songs.

_**Bette Davis' Eyes – Kim Carnes**_

_**Eyes Without a Face – Billy Idol**_

_**Behind Blue Eyes – The Who**_

_**Hungry Eyes – Eric Carman**_

_**Every Breath You Take (I'll be Watching You) – The Police**_

_**I Only Have Eyes For You... (standard, various)**_

_**Eyes on fire – Blue Oyster Cult**_

_**Eyes On Fire – Rainbow (Same title, different lyrics)**_

_**Now Read On...**_

Lady T'Malia took a deep breath. Her formidable underpinnings audibly creaked under the strain**(1)**. Emmanuelle idly wondered if she was in one respect a female version of Fred Colon. A man who, like jelly, once poured into a front-and-back breastplate with perfectly sculpted muscle structure**(2)** could from a distance pass for a man of normal size and musculature. It was rumoured she was buying Thaumic Rejuvenation Treatments from the university: the kindest estimation of her actual age was "way over sixty".

But right now, she was the most senior Mistress in the Assassins' School, the member of staff to whom all other women teachers deferred, their professional mentor and the woman who made decisions and adjudicated on issues of discipline and difficult cases. A reprimand from T'Malia for an error of judgement could _sting_.

But Emmanuelle was presenting a case for one of those ethically tricky subjects to be formally added to the school curriculum. T'Malia, who had taken the fall-out from Emmanuelle's notion of a liberal arts curriculum before**(3)**, was expressing reluctance.

"Well, yes, Emmanuelle. But I have to deal with _parents_. They pay the _fees_. And it makes _my_ job easier if they are happy about the curriculum we provide and reassured that we are not offering anything they would find to be _distasteful_ or ethically _unsound_!"

She shuddered. Corsetry creaked, audibly.

Emmanuelle continued her case.

"I assuredly do not wish to cause you extra work or inconvenience." she said. "But there is a very real and pressing need for this subject to be formally taught. After all, my lady, the Concordat states that a pupil at this school will be taught _all_ the social skills necessary for a young gentleman or woman of good breeding. This is a very obvious gap and will need addressing, if only for pragmatic reasons."

Lady T'Malia looked uncharacteristically uncertain. Emmanuelle pressed her point.

"If nothing else, my lady, Assassins _will_ go into these houses. They _will_ advance money. They require teaching in how to do so sensibly and with prudence. It is a part of life! And where such establishments are concerned, where large sums of money are involved, they will assuredly meet clients and those able to afford to buy a contract."

"Yes, Emmanuelle. I wholly agree. But _gambling_!"

"Gambling is a fact of life, my lady. I have seen you at the tables?"

T'Malia had the good grace to look shifty for a moment.

"Well, yes. But we are fully qualified Assassins! It's _different_ for us!"

"How, exactly, my lady?" Emmanuelle pressed her. "Does full knowledge and awareness of how to gamble safely and sensibly come to us with the pink slip, as if it were a magical spell? We have all seen and heard of Assassins who have taken a risk too many and staked – and lost- large sums of money at the casino. We are taught to take risks – intelligently considered and evaluated risks. But, _alors,_ there are Assassins who are left with huge gambling debts when they have taken a risk too far. Such debts must be paid. _Noblesse oblige. _Promising young people have been killed on missions they felt forced to accept. This is not good for the Guild, my lady."

"Yes." T'Malia said, thoughtfully. "You yourself came to us as a mature candidate in _exactly_ those circumstances. A hundred thousand, was it not, owed to the troll Chrysophrase?"**(4)**

Emmanuelle winced. She did not like to be reminded. At least it had all worked out in the end and Chrysophrase regarded her as a highly trusted associate. He was good to such people: she knew she could call upon the troll crimelord for favours if she was ever that desperate. He had thought highly enough of her to personally investigate reports she was about to be inhumed by the Assassins, for acting as an unlicenced hired killer.

"Even I can slip up." she admitted, reluctantly. "Therefore I must ask for our students to be taught this particular fact of life. Gambling is barred to student Assassins, yet the allure is such that they still gamble. I wish them to be made aware, and for the benefits of others' hard-won experience to enlighten them."

There was a pause. T'Malia clapped her hands for the maid to refill their glasses. Lady T'Malia believed conferences with her teaching staff should be civilised affairs over a drink.

"This is about the Perry-Bowen girl, isn't it?" T'Malia said, perceptively. Emmanuelle winced.

"Yes, at least in part."

T'Malia sighed.

"Do you know, that young woman has coped _marvellously_ over the past few months." she said. "Absolutely marvellously. Full marks to her, what with the injuries she received and being subjected to Igor surgery. I hope the trauma she has undergone was taken into account and she wasn't punished _too_ harshly?"

Emmanuelle sighed. She had been forced to discipline Catherine for a breach of school rules. With extreme reluctance. Had the matter not been brought to her attention by another member of the teaching staff, she might have dealt with it wholly informally, with nothing written down nor any need for a black mark on the girl's official record.

T'Malia noted the look on her face. Lady T'Malia taught Political Expediency and Pragmatic Diplomacy. She could read even the slightest look like a book. She smiled, indulgently.

"But then I recall a young student did much the same during ...his... time here. Emmanuel-Martin de Jeannedarc, as I recall. An _interesting_ young man!"**(5)**

Her eyes misted over with nostalgia.

" I was, and remain, quite fond of him, my dear."

Emmanuelle smiled. T'Malia continued.

"I agree with all the points you have made, my dear. But we just _cannot_ officially teach our students about gambling. It would look bad. Parents would complain. The Times would get to hear of it. Bad publicity."

"Is there a contract out on Monsieur de Worde?" Emmanuelle inquired.

"It is always a possibility." her mentor conceded. "But other newspapers would then accuse us of trying to suppress a free Press, and we can't inhume them _all_."

"_C'est la vie." _said Emmanuelle, philosophically.**(6)**

"Indeed." said T'Malia, drily. "Or _C'est La Morte_, perhaps. Anyway. It occurs to me that Mr Mycroft is on sick leave for a short period. I know it's short notice, but could you cover his mathematics class for me? You will, in all _probability, _ find it interesting."

Emmanuelle caught the hint. T'Malia added, reinforcing the point:

"There is no bar on teaching maths, nor any likelihood of adverse publicity. It's as safe a subject as any on the curriculum."

"I believe I understand you, my Lady." Emmanuelle said, smiling slightly.

"Good! Then I won't keep you. You may perhaps want to prepare lesson plans for one hour and one-and-a-half hour timetable slots?"

* * *

Catherine Perry-Bowen, meanwhile, had had an interesting afternoon at the Animal Management Unit. She had been led to a vacant classroom on the second floor, where Miss Smith-Rhodes, Matron Igorina and Arachne Webber had been waiting for her.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes had studied her intently for a few moments, looking disconcertingly and unflinchingly into Catherine's eyes.

"Cetherine, you are going to be _tested_ over the next hour." she eventually said. Catherine did not like the sound of that word.

"Please understend thet we are not out to injure you nor to do you any herm. Matron Igorina will be on hend et ell times should you display signs of distress. Miss Webber will be in cherge of the experiment, which is of her own devising, end which hes been epproved by me. My role here is strictly supervisory. In a moment we will blindfold you end Erechne will lead you into this room, where you will encounter several enimel species. _You must trust us_. Look upon this, perheps, as a trial to ascertain your fitness to continue certain courses of study here. Efterwerds, you will be relieved it is over. Trust senses other than your eyes. Gether your mental strength. This is a quelity the Essessin requires in order to succeed!"

Johanna took and squeezed her hand reassuringly, then Catherine felt blackness descend in the form of a blindfold and hood. Friendly hands led her through a door. It brushed against her arm as it swung open, and then closed behind her. She sensed the lighting in the room had been artificially dimmed.

She was left standing alone for an unguessable length of time – probably only a few minutes. There was complete silence apart from a faint scuttling and clicking.

_Whatever it is, they're softening me up, _she thought. _Leaving me alone with my thoughts to see if the fear builds. If it gets uncontrollable they'll fail me, whatever it is. _

She started to have a suspicion as to what sort of wildlife was in the room with her. She recalled her uncontrollable fear and panic in the presence of the spiders. Incredibly, it was only a _memory _of fear and panic. It could only come back if she allowed it to. She took deep regular Zen breaths, as she had been taught: the calming breath. The one that allowed you to assert control over your body. She now realised this wasn't an ordeal all students had to face, alone and in the dark; she wondered if this had been devised especially for her. She felt something scuttle over her foot and shuddered slightly. But then, anyone would.

"What do you feel, Catherine?"

Arachne Webber, speaking softly from just behind her to her right.

"I felt something running over my right foot, Miss Webber." she said.

"And this made you feel?" Arachne prompted.

"Uneasy. A slightly unpleasant sensation. But I think that was the surprise of it more than anything else." She was surprised how calm her voice sounded.

"Good. Now I'm going to take it a stage further. I am going to put an animal on your sleeve. Do not worry. She will hold on of her own accord."

Catherine braced herself slightly, she felt Arachne draw closer, and then a weight was placed on her right forearm. She felt the slight tensing of _legs_ gaining a foothold on the material of her sleeve. She assessed. The creature, whatever it was, was small and compact. Whatever it was, it weighed light.

Her hairs prickled as she felt it scuttling up her arm, ever nearer her head and face. She forced herself to be calm, but was aware she was not feeling anything like that uncontrollable panic and fear. Her thought processes raced. Small, comact, light. It did not move like a mammal or reptile, It felt as if it had more legs than four. It appeared to occupy a zone of between four and eight inches, a little more than the size of the palm of her hand... the scent was faint, musty, something _other..._

It climbed to her shoulder and settled there.

Catherine felt surprisingly calm, although tense.

"Can you identify the animal?" Arachne asked, gently. Catherine searched for the correct Latatian taxonomy. _What had Linoleum called this phylum?_ _Oh yes..._

"I believe this is an arachnid." The word came easily to her, in a matter-of-fact way. "Possibly of the genus _Theraphosidae._ I cannot identify it any more closely than that."

"_Therophosida Acantopelma Rubescens_, to be precise. Found in the Paraquatian rainforest. And you are calm enough to think and reason and reach an accurate conclusion. And to tolerate her presence so near your face." Arachne said. "This is in concurrence with the theory I proposed, Miss Smith-Rhodes."

Catherine heard Miss Smith-Rhodes acknowledging this, and heard her say "Cerry on to the next test, Miss Webber."

The tarantula was deftly removed from her shoulder. After a pause, Arachne guided her to the next test. Her hand was guided to a smooth cold surface with a latex-feeling aperture.

"This is a one-way membrane leading into an animal habitat." Arachne said. It allows things in whilst preventing the animals inside from escaping. I require you to put your hand inside." Arachne then dabbed her hand with something wet and liquid. There was a faint unidentifiable smell.

Catherine hesitated, then remembered the words _you must trust us_. It did seem as if things were being escalated. She wondered why she was not a gibbering wreck. She inserted her hand. She tensed; almost immediately things began scuttling over it. More and more things.

"Your hand is inside a spider tank. It has been sprayed with a nutritive essence irresistible to arachnia. We require you to hold it in there until they have all... fed."

There was something about the emphasis Arachne Webber put on the word _fed. _Catherine wondered if she was completely sane._ No, just obsessive about spiders. _

Another eternity passed. Arachne spoke again.

"The spiders clustered on your hand are_ heptothermidae._ They are completely harmless to people."

There was another pause.

"Although I could be just telling you that to ensure your compliance. There is no guarantee that they are not, for instance, _Lycosa Raptoria,_ who are utterly deadly."

Catherine bit back a shriek and remembered _you must trust us. _And anyway, Matron Igorina had a cabinet full of antidotes at her disposal. An informal arms-race went on at the Guild: Mericet and Miss Sanderson-Reeves devised new poisons. Igorina countered by creating antidotes. It kept all sides intellectually occupied and gave them a competitive hobby.

Another eternity passed. Catherine forced herself to realise the spiders scuttling and settling on her hand were quite ticklish, really, and nothing to worry about. They dropped off, one by one, and she was invited to wiggle her fingers to dislodge the last few stragglers. Then she was told she could withdraw her hand, which had started to itch.

"Are you satisfied, Miss Smith-Rhodes? Matron? Then we can move to the last test of all. Catherine, I am going to introduce you to a friend of mine. She has been watching your progress with interest. How's your Toledan?"

Catherine was led across the room. She sensed a presence. A large presence.

"¿Felicia? Es una nueva amiga. Se llama Catherine."

Catherine felt a limb being extended to her. It was thick and round and pulsed and seemed to terminate in a claw of some kind. It was coated in bristles or hairs. And it belonged to an animal. She dredged up the Toledan and said, hesitantly,

¡Hola, Felicia! ¿Como va ahora?"

"She understands you. But her mouthparts cannot easily articulate human speech. She is perfectly friendly. I have high hopes for communicating with this species. They live in the deep jungle and have human-sized brains. I estimate them to be at least as intelligent as a typical city troll!"

Arachne paused. Catherine could sense the pride radiating off her.

"I nurtured her in a tank in my dorm at the Guild. Then as she grew, the other girls started to complain. Then I was sent down to see Lord Downey for a sherry and the offer of an almond slice."

Catherine felt sympathetic. They all knew what that meant. After her own recent black mark, she was surprised it hadn't happened to her.

"He reprimanded me and ordered me to transfer her to the Animal Management Unit where he thought she belonged. Unfair, I think. Other girls get to keep dogs and horses here!"**(7)**

"Shall we take the blindfold off now?" said Igorina. "The very last test of all."

"Heve a sedetive on stend-by." Johanna advised her.

Igorina sighed, contentedly. She _liked_ Arachne, a girl after her own heart. Arachne Webber unfailingly provided the spider-webs that were the essential décor in an Igor cellar, and had even been privileged enough to be invited down there. She had viewed the contents without revulsion and had asked professionally interested questions. Igorina suspected somewhere along the line, there was Igor blood in her. Arachne had _promise_.

Catherine tensed. She was led back from Felicia. The blindfold was removed. _Then_ she screamed as the terror flooded back along with her vision.

As Igorina hurriedly replaced the blindfold and administered a sedative drug, Arachne remarked

"I believe this proves the case, Miss Smith-Rhodes. The arachnophobia only takes over when she can _see_ the spiders."

Johanna nodded.

"End given the donor of her new eyes is known to be arachnophobic herself..."

"A transferred symptom." Igorina said, as she steered Catherine to the door. She was gibbering about giant spiders. Enormous spiders.

"Psychic transference." Igorina concluded.

A clicking and sibiliant hissing noise was heard. It was just about decipherable as the Toledan for "Oh dear. I seem to have this effect on people. Was it something I said?"

Arachne rushed to reassure the Giant Sloth-Eating Spider of Paraquat, whom she had raised from the egg-sac. Felicia measured about nine feet across from leg to leg. She was the largest known species of spider on the Disc**(8)**, and Miss Webber's consequent scientific dissertation on arachnid intelligence had won her prizes.

* * *

"This is _very_ difficult for me, Catherine." Madame Deux-Epées said, looking sternly at her. "For my part, very difficult indeed!"

She shook her head.

"There is no doubt that you are in a very serious breach of school rules. None at all."

Catherine bowed her head. She had indeed broken School rules on various counts. There was no doubt at all. A tiny rebellious voice in her head said _But I'm sixteen! It's perfectly legal outside, in the City! Why should it be an offence here? _To which a counter-voice said _Yes, but in here it's Guild territory. City law is only nominal in here. Guild rules apply. _The first voice came back with _But I did what I did outside the Guild! _

Sitting behind her desk, and therefore making this Official,Madame Deux-Epées looked almost sorrowful as well as stern. She spoke again:

"You know me and how I choose to run Black Widow House. _My_ House. I would have much preferred to deal with this informally and where sanction is necessary, to award an informal sanction. But you were witnessed, _cherie_, in School uniform, by another member of Staff who raised this matter with me. Therefore it is now a School matter, and one I cannot keep within the Black Widow family."

She did not add _that officious rule-book bound little man Mr Moody, damn him to the seven Hells. And of course he also told T'Malia and she summoned me for a disciplinary drink and asked what I proposed to do about it. I cannot keep it informal now. _

Catherine listened passively, wondering what her punishment would be. Madame Deux-Epées was not nasty enough to send her out on a mission scouting Ramkin Manor and stalking Vimes. Nor would she impose two hours of cleaning out the skunk-cages at the A.M.U., as Miss Smith-Rhodes would. Mrs Mericet normally assigned errant pupils the chore of cleaning the ovens in Domestic Science. No laughing matter, if they had last been used to bake Lord Downey's _special_ almond slices. That called for _more_ than just Marigold rubber gloves and old worn clothes. What was Madame Two-Swords' version of the Vimes Run?

Her teacher shook her head sorrowfully.

"Catherine, you were seen going in and out of Lashbrook's bookmakers on Cable Street. We ascertained you were laying bets. You _know_ gambling for cash is _expressly_ forbidden to students!"

"Yes, madame. I know."

"But you chose to break School rules anyway. Catherine, _ma petite_, I propose to award you two demerits. They will remain on your record for the rest of your time here, although any commendations you receive will balance them out. Which is _lenient_. _Ma foi_, what got into you? You are usually such a well-behaved conscientious young woman!"

Catherine sighed. She knew her teacher was also a Gamblers' Guild member, and guessed for that reason, she was extremely unhappy to have to discipline a pupil for what she did not consider to be a sin, and freely indulged in herself. She decided to play on this.

"Madame, I was looking at the sports pages at the back of the Times. I came across the racing form pages, and it occurred to me to try my luck. Up until now, they had always been uninteresting, just meaningless numbers. But as I read them, they suddenly made sense to me. Everything clicked. I also realised I wanted, very strongly so, to lay a bet and see how it all worked out. It was so exciting!"

Emmanuelle tried to hide her consternation. _First my arachnophobia, and now this? _She composed herself, aware of the girl looking back at her, puzzled, and said, flatly,

"How much did you win, if anything?"

Catherine took a breath.

"Four hundred and eighty-six dollars, madame. An accumulator bet."

Madame Deux-Epées kept an impassive face with difficulty.

"Four hundred and eighty-six dollars." she repeated, in an undertone. There was silence for a moment, and then Madame Deux-Epées seemed to come to a decision.

"_Bien_." she said. "I have dealt with you formally and imposed a punishment. But there is nothing that says I cannot also respond informally. We are encouraged to give pastoral care to our students, after all."

She pushed back her chair and stood up.

"This interview is formally over." she said. "But be so kind as to meet me at the porter's lodge in ten minutes. We are going for a little walk, _ma petite._ It is raining outside. You will require your hat and coat."

"Yes, madame." Catherine said, wondering what else her teacher had in store for her.

"And bring the money you won on _les chevaux_." Madame Deux-Epées added, as she reached the door. "You will need it."

* * *

"Going out, madame?" the duty porter genially asked.

"But of course, _Monsieur_ Stippler!" Emmanuelle said, as she and Catherine signed out of the Guild. "I am escorting this student on a little informal extra tuition. We will not be going far, only, I think, across the river to the Street of Alchemists."

"Dangerous place, that." Stippler remarked, shaking his head. "Things explode a lot."

Emmanuelle smiled.

"We are _Assassins_, _Monsieur_ Stippler." she reminded him. "Going into dangerous places – and coming out alive – is what we are _for_."

"See you both later then, ladies!" Stippler said, with his usual genial smile.

* * *

Although it was early evening, they were not bothered or molested in the City. Assassins carrying swords are generally untroubled by the Ankh-Morpork street theatre. A beggar, seeing an Assassin and a student Assassin, usually good for a few small coins, tried his luck with them.

"Give him a dollar, cherie." Emmanuelle said. "I believe at the moment you would not miss it." Catherine handed it over, to a cry of _Gawds bless you, miss!_

The walk round to Alchemists took about twenty minutes, Emmanuelle making genial small-talk with Catherine. They both noted the Alchemists' Guildhouse was still standing, although several upper windows had been blown out. A late-working glazier was busy boarding up the windows.

"It is about ready to blow again, I think." Emmanuelle said. "My intuition tells me."

"They aren't bothering to put new glass in." Catherine said, eager to make a contribution. "That suggests they don't think it's worth it. Which in turn suggests there are more than usually hazardous experiments going on in there. Exothermic alchemy, perhaps, madame?"

Madame Deux-Epées looked at her pupil and smiled with pride.

"My thoughts exactly, _cherie_! In fact, you were ahead of me. A most admirable observation!"

Catherine was only half-surprised that they went into the Gamblers' Guild headquarters and casino, opposite the Alchemists. They were greeted by a smiling and exquisitely dressed croupier.

"So nice to see you again, Madame!" she said. "I see you have brought a friend?"

She and Emmanuelle kissed on both cheeks, in the Quirmian manner.

"She is but a pupil, Marianne." she said. "Would Mr Jones be free right now?"

"Mr Jones _always_ makes time for _you_, Madame!" Marianne assured her, and went to pass on the message.

"Mr Scrote Jones is a very old friend." Emmanuelle explained. "I wish you to meet him tonight. You will, of course, address him as _Mr_ Jones. He is a Guild leader and a City council member, after all, and you are but a student."

Emmanuelle paused only to make an entry in a _Guild Members Only_ ledger held at the front desk. She paused, looked at Catherine, and then made another entry.

"This is our ongoing little bet, among Guild members. We have a spread bet, on the next time and date the Alchemists' Guild will blow itself up. I have laid bets for myself, the larger sum, and for you as my guest, in the smaller amount. I believe our neighbours will immolate themselves again no later than midnight on Friday. They may have been in the pub beforehand, _tu comprends? _Beer and exothermic alchemy do not mix."

Emmanuelle smiled a contented smile.

"Whoever gets closest to the date and time wins the pot, or a share of the pot. It currently stands at over three thousand dollars".

And then Marianne the croupier came back to escort them to the Guild President's office. Catherine was surprised to see how small and relatively unadorned it was. For somebody who had changed his Guild from a lowly cluster of veteran gamblers living on their wits, into one of the chasing pack immediately behind Assassins, Thieves, Beggars and Seamstresses in terms of wealth and prestige, she'd have expected something _grander_.

But Scrote Jones' genius had been in recognising how many people wanted a modest gamble. He had brought together bookmakers' shops, alongside the traditional casinos, card tables, baccarat, backgammon and Cripple Mr Onion schools, and imposed clear and fair _rules_ binding all concerned. Almost overnight, the bent operations had diminished and died. Even Chrysophrase the Troll had seen the virtues of running a fair game, and his casinos now operated to Guild rules: it was that or go under. Cripple Wa, seeing his old floating crap school wither and fade, had threatened death on Jones. But the Patrician had ruled on the demarcation principle involved, and had decided that all gambling, cardsharping, dice-throwing and other games of chance where money changed hands were the sole preserve of the Guild of Gamblers and no longer a Beggars' prerogative. Perhaps the fact that Scrote Jones had arranged to pay a City tax of ten per cent on all its revenues had swayed Vetinari's judgement; the Beggars had been rather slack in paying tax.

And, Catherine reflected, the Gamblers' Guild offered discreet private rooms, where City leaders including Vetinari could unwind and have social games of whist, in which absolutely _no_ political or economic issues were informally discussed – they were there to relax and lay modest side bets, after all.

The man in the green glass visor of office stood up to delightedly welcome Madame Deux-Epées .

"Emmie!" he said, delightedly, They embraced; Catherine heard her teacher say _Pas maintainant, mon amour_ in a low voice.

"You've brought a guest, Emmie?" Scrote Jones inquired.

"A student." Emmanuelle corrected him. "Let us be seated. Catherine, you will now tell Mr Jones everything about your recent indiscretion. Leave nothing out."

Catherine reluctantly told. Scrote Jones shook his head and tutted.

"Ooh. Laying bets on behalf of other students? That's unlicenced bookmaking, that is. Without Guild approval. _Naughty_, that!"

He frowned disapprovingly. Catherine reflected that although he was obviously older than her father, he was actually quite attractive, in a funny sort of a way that she couldn't work out. She'd heard the rumour that he was Two-Swords' lover. The more she looked at him, the more she could grasp _why_. To her horror, she realised something new stirring in the lower part of her body, that she wasn't entirely at home with. She squirmed in her seat. She reddened. Fortunately, Jones seemed as if he was putting her discomfort down to the predicament she was in. She gulped. She'd heard the Gamblers now employed enforcers to deter any unlicenced gambling operations. Would she end up with her fingers broken?

"There is perhaps a way around this." Emmanuelle said.

_Ah, They're playing good cop, bad cop. The oldest interrogation technique in the book. _

"Mr Jones, the situation may be regularised. It is specifically laid down in Assassins' Guild rules that any Guild member may also be a member of other Guilds, subject to permission from their mentor. I believe this is to accommodate late entrants and mature students who have led other lives and had other careers. But it does not specifically exclude Guild students. And as her Housemistress, I class as Catherine's mentor, who may give or with-hold such permission. Mr Jones, I understand young people of between sixteen and eighteen may become Associate Members of the Gamblers' Guild? _Magnifique_, the problem is solved!"

"Sixteen _is_ the legal age for gambling in this city, yes." Scrote agreed. "OK, young lady. From what you said I believe you are developing an aptitude for gambling. Winning nearly five hundred dollars first time out indicates you've got something."

"Or it could be beginner's luck." Emmanuelle said, drily.

"Either way, we can take her on. Show her how to cut her losses and run if she's on a bad streak. Teach her a few skills. Guide her steps. In return, we take fifteen per cent of all winnings. No joining fee, but we take fifteen in every hundred. Which reminds me..."

"Show him the money, _cherie._" Emmanuelle said, happily. Catherine paid up with good grace and filled the forms in. In return, she received a Gamblers' Guild membership badge.

"We can keep you out of trouble now." said Emmanuelle.

"Welcome to the Guild!" said Scrote, extending a hand. Catherine took it.

From downstairs, music was playing. Catherine had heard the tune. It had started as a cabaret song at one of the clubs. Probably the Blue Cat: they were trend-setters there. Even _straight_ people tried to get in to see the floorshow and hear the songs. A part of Catherine's inner dialogue supplied the words:

_Her hair is deep-dwarf gold; her lips sweet surprise;_

_Her hands are never cold, she's got Theda Withel's eyes! _

_She'll turn the music on you, _

_you won't have to think twice_

_She's pure as Ankh-Morpork snow;_

_She's got Theda Withel's eyes!_

_But who was Theda Withel? _Maddy Selachii thought she'd been some old actress from before both their times, she'd heard Daddy talk about her once.

Madame Deux-Epées was speaking.

"Mr Jones, may I ask you a favour? I require certain items from you to use as teaching aids in a class I am taking. They will be bulky, but _tiens_, I have Catherine to carry them back to the Guild for me!"

Catherine smiled. She was still over three hundred dollars ahead on the day. It could have turned out much worse...

* * *

_**To be continued...**__ in the next thrilling episode, Catherine takes a swordsmanship lesson. Emmanuelle covers a maths class in unique and unorthodox style. Young love may rear its troublesome head..._

* * *

**(1)**T'Malia had her corsetry constructed for her by the upmarket underwear manufacturers Burleigh and Spoke. The Burleigh half of the partnership saw this as a peace dividend, a profitable civilian spin-off from the advanced technology used to fabricate state-of-the-art armour and weaponry for the military. They had been dissuaded from putting _By Appointment To The Guild of Assassins_ on their promotional literature by a personal visit from T'Malia, who had reminded them of the meaning of the word _discreet. _

**(2) **As befits a senior Sergeant. Who tend to be so senior that their muscle definition has faded with the years and needs every help it can get.

**(3) **Emmanuelle's trial course module in _Seduction and Honey-Trap Methods For Assassins_ had been very popular among senior girls, but had to be removed from the curriculum after an avalanche of complaints from parents who didn't mind their daughters being trained as pitiless mercenary killers, but drew the line at the idea that the best way to a client's heart (or liver, or jugular vein) was through his trousers. T'Malia still winced at the soothing and reassuring she'd had to do after that one.

**(4) **See my story **_The Graduation Class._**

**(5) **For the true identity of the student assassin Emmanuel-Martin de Jeannedarc, see my stories **_The Graduation Class _**and **_The Only One. _**This student narrowly missed taking his Final Exam as he was expelled from the Assassins' School shortly beforehand for a gross breach of school rules . You cannot hold a good Assassin down – M. de Jeanndarc came back some years later, when all the fuss had died down, under their real name as a Mature Student.

**(6) **I had to stop dead at this point as an idea for a piece of fan-art occurred to me. Yes, I've been drawing things, like my occasional characters from fanfic. _C'est La Vie_ is also a wonderfully witty webcomic about a French woman living in Los Angeles. The thought occurred to me of drawing the central character Mona Montrois as a Discworld Assassin, perhaps an avatar of Emmanuelle...

**(7) Johanna** was soon to trump this achievement by nurturing a lion cub at the Guild. Lord Downey would take a deep breath and look back to the days when Felicia was the definition of a wholly unsuitable pet.

**(8) **Officially, anyway. Although Igorina had imparted a preciously-guarded piece of Igor-lore to Arachne, while they were drinking tea in her cellar. In the old dark days of the Dark War, millenia ago, it is said that the counter-Igors, the Rogi, had bio-engineered the largest spider of all. Not out of any great desire to be evil, but just because they _could. _

**_Theraphosida Ungolianta Gigantica _**was its provisional taxonomy, but during the Dark Wars it had become known as the Orc-Eating Spider. "The Rogi were frightened of their creation, the Orcs, and needed a greater threat still as insurance against them" Igorina had explained. "But the cure wath worse than the disease. They ate motht of the Rogi as well as quite a few Orcs , and then fled into the mountains. Igor-lore hath it they are thtill there now." Arachne would have _killed _to get hold of one, or at least laid her hands on an egg-sac.

* * *

_**Bonus Song Lyric – Kim Carnes, "Bette Davis' Eyes".**_

Her hair is Harlow gold, her lips sweet surprise

Her hands are never cold, she's got Bette Davis eye

sShe'll turn the music on you,

you won't have to think twice

She's pure as New York snow,

she got Bette Davis eyes;

And she'll tease you, she'll unease you

All the better just to please you

She's precocious

And she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush

She got Greta Garbo standoff sighs,

she's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll let you take her home,

it whets her appetite

She'll lay you on the throne,

she got Bette Davis eyes

She'll take a tumble on you,

roll you like you were dice

Until you come up blue, she's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll expose you,

when she snows you

Hope you'll feed with the crumbs she throws you

She's ferocious

And she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush

All the boys think she's a spy,

she's got Bette Davis eyes

And she'll tease you, she'll unease you

All the better just to please you

She's precocious

And she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush

All the boys think she's a spy,

she's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll tease you,

she'll unease you

Just to please you,

she's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll expose you

when she snows you

She knows you,

she's got Bette Davis Eyes


	5. So high on eyes, i almost lost my way

_**Looking Through Fresh Eyes 5: **__**So high on eyes I almost lost my way!**_

_(Tying up a dangling loose end left hanging at the end of **Nature Studies**)_

Right, to it again after the Hogswatch break... can't think of a suitably sinister eye-related soundtrack yet, but no doubt it will come. It will come by the end of this chapter.

* * *

It had occurred to Alice Band that she could get a crack at winning the Teatime Memorial Prize (for best theoretical or actual inhumation of a supernatural entity, or of a normal Discly mortal protected by magic or Gods) by investigating the subject of whether Hughnon Ridcully could ever be the subject of a successful inhumation. She knew her uncle would laugh and treat it as a huge joke, after he'd got past his initial paranoia concerning whether they really WERE out to get him. And she could sweetly suggest to him that if it _were_ for real, he'd be far happier to know that a member of the family, who knew him best, was giving the issue her personal bespoke attention. There was already a potentially winning submission concerning the putative Guild-assisted demise of his brother Mustrum Ridcully, after all. **(1)**

Hughnon Ridcully filled space. Even a space as massive as the High Priest's formal office became small when he was in it. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. He was intent and interested.

"Now _that's_ a bloody interestin' theological question!" he declared. "Bloody interestin' indeed. I may have to consult."

Alice and Emmanuelle exchanged a glance. The study of theology on the Disc was not the dry and restful, largely theoretical, discipline it was on other worlds, where even the existence of Gods was in doubt. On the Disc, it was dynamic and urgent. Interpreting the Divine Will on the Disc could sometimes be a matter of some urgency, especially when a thunderbolt was pointing meaningfully at you and poised to go, should you interpret the wishes of the God in a way that deity personally disapproved of. Being a theologian on the Disc could be a high-risk activity, as the Gods took a keen personal interest in what was said about them. The Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks was a considerate body in this regard, and set aside considerable sums in its fire insurance policy for its theologian members. **(3)**

Theology could be hazardous on a world where the gods took a personal interest and took a critical interest in the quality of your at this present moment, it had become important to ascertain, in a theoretical and non-prejudical manner, just exactly what the drift of thought going through the mind of the Great God Blind Io concerning an entirely novel situation (with considerable room for a personal gnosis if it all went wrong) actually _was. _More of an _abgnosis_**(4), ** in fact.

Ridcully sighed, then harrumphed. He then bellowed for a junior deacon to provide tea and coffee for his guests. A harassed-looking very junior priest rushed to fulfil the order.

"Good man, Higson." he said, conversationally. "Newly ordained, learnin' the meanin' of selfless service, coming along a treat. Now. Ladies."

He was suddenly businesslike again.

"This is a new one on me, I have to admit. Trust the bloody Igors to shake everythin' up like this! So. When in doubt, grasp the known facts. So you're the Goddess of the Eyeball People, m'dear?"

Ridcully's eyes twinkled. He was definitely amused.

"Please believe me, High Priest. It is not an advancement I would have chosen for myself." Emmanuelle said, hurriedly. She wasn't sure if the God was listening. But in the presence of His spokesman on the Disc, it was very probable. Although it was said the Gods were fairly lazy. Weren't they? She fervently hoped so.

"Very wise of you to deny it!" he said. "Io claims a monopoly on all things ocular. He's cornered the market in eyeballs, you might say. Now if it were _sausages_, you'd be havin' this conversation with the Chief Priest of Offler. And kitchen utensils, now, you'd be discussin' the practicalities with young Tremmie Mume. Clever girl, Tremmie. Anoia owes her, big-time. Sugar?"

He beckoned the young cleric over to pour the drinks.

"Me god-daughter here takes hers with two sugars." he said. "Which is fine, the girl leads a healthy active life, she's out in the fresh air a lot, always has done!"

Alice acknowledged her coffee with thanks. She suspected the skinny young curate didn't get enough.

"But what do _you_ think, Uncle Hughnon?" she pressed him.

Ridcully frowned.

"Well, you cannot be blamed for a situation the bloody Igors forced on you." he said. "Damn people all have built-in lightning conductors, so they're immune to thunderbolts. Curse 'em with a plague, they'll laugh it off 'cos they do the vaccines. Smite their firstborn, they'll re-assemble the buggers. Curse them with boils and they'll lance the wretched things, apply one of their ointments and walk on. Turn their water into blood, and they'll bottle it for transfusions. Those damn people are God-proof."

"What about a plague of frogs and locusts, Uncle?" Alice asked. "Apparently in Djelbeybi they got into the air-conditioning, and all the magnified croaking and chirruping echoing in the pipes sent everyone nuts."

"Always thought sendin' a plague of locusts into a desert was a waste of effort and a damn' poor grasp of geography." her uncle remarked. The young curate glanced apprehensively upwards. There was a distant roll of thunder.

"And a bit cruel to the locusts, too."

Thunder cracked again and tailed off.

"Probably Offler takin' it personally. We're protected here, it's built in. Alice, m'dear, Igors would positively _welcome_ something like frogs and toads. Adds to the boffo, d'y'see?"

She laughed, appreciatively.

Emmanuelle said "Eyeballs?" to remind him.

"Of course. Eyeballs. Goddess of. I feel I'll need to go _deep_ on this one."

He addressed the deacon.

"Go and fetch the wife, lad? She likes to sit in on this. It's a treat for her and I don't want to dissappoint."

He turned to Alice and Emmanuelle.

"Just got to get in the right state of prayerful mind for this... Now, Alice is familiar with what's going to happen next. Her father was good at this too, as I recall. She's seen it a hundred times if she's seen it once. So just let me tune in..."

Ridcully composed himself and his eyes closed. Emmanuelle was interested: she'd heard of this, but this was the first time she'd seen it in action. She wondered what privileged glimpses she was going to get. As she watched the High Priest's eyes close and his shoulders slump into relaxation, she heard Alice warmly greeting her aunt as she scurried in.

"I'm not late, am I, dears? Oh good, it's just starting..."

Mrs Ridcully settled into a comfy chair and her face took on a look of rapt devotion. The deacon took up a notepad and a pencil and poised to write...

..after an expectant silence, Ridcully started speaking, in a distant faraway voice, but one laden with excitement, enthusiasm, and multiple exclamation marks. In contrast to his normal speaking voice, it was strangely accented and had a vaguely sing-song Hublandish tone to it, Alice noted.

"And tonight in the Divine Brotherhood House! In response to your prayed-in vote, we said goodbye to the former God Nuggan, voted _out_ of the House after his belief vote crashed to near zero. Doing himself no favours there with all those unpopular and frankly bizarre Abominations, whour Nuggan! Voted _in,_ with a titanic surge of faith was the Goddess Pedestriana, whose faith rating surged up out of nowhere, and hasn't this bonny lass made herself felt in the House!"**(5)**

Emmanuelle raised an eyebrow. Alice said, softly

"It varies. Sometimes it's like a talent show where they do little performances in front of a jury. Some are pretty good, but some are frankly terrible. The jury comments can be fun**(6)**."

Emmanuelle reminded herself that as daughter of a long line of priests, Alice Band had the ability to tune into the God-Consciousness if she so chose. She would tune in late-nights for recreation and amusement. Ridcully went on, the words sounding as if they were echoing from far, far, away:

"_And Tubso, the Virtue of {{CRACKLING STATIC}}, has just crossly shouted at Astoria, Goddess of Lurve, and Dike, Goddess of... well, Goddess of Justice, and Now Also of Embankments and Holders-Back-Of-Water", _

"Why don't you two bloody exhibitionists go and get a room or something! I'm as broad-minded as anyone but you're frankly making me puke!"

There was a retching noise in the background.

"Oh, sorry, Bilious.."

The Oh-God of Hangovers smiled weakly. His place among the Gods was assured: _everybody_ believed a night on the piss was inevitably punished the next morning. Except Bibulous, who seemed to be immune to it.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it, petal." Astoria said, with a seductive smile. "It's a kind of love, isn't it? Go and read my job description..."

She went back to nuzzling Dike's neck, as the former Goddess of Justice continued to industriously dishevel her robes.

"And it's DEE-KAY, right?" said the former Goddess of Justice and Due Process of Law. "Two syllables!"

"Well, yes." said Tubso. "But it beats me why you two have to do it in public where everyone can see."

"See?" said Dee-Kay, with a sort of triumph. (Watching on the inner screen of her mind, Alice Band detected a Reg Shoe didactic note in her Goddess's voice.) "I'm telling you, Astoria, this is the sort of narrow-minded intolerance we have to face from bloody heteros. The moment you kiss your girlfriend in public, which is a basic human..."

"..divine," Astoria corrected.

"A basic right for deities, humans, trolls, dwarfs or any sentient created thing, they tell you they're tolerant, but when you actually DO it, they scream about it being disgusting and push you back in the closet again!"

"Plenty of closets round here, love." said Tubso. "The new girl's just cleared all that bloody stationery out that Nuggan left behind, the little creep. And isn't it mandatory to do it in the stationery cupboard after a few drinks?"

"That's what Nuggan used to say." Astoria remarked, off-handedly. "Little nonce. The only time stationery is an aphrodisiac, and I should know, is when people get pissed at the Hogswatch staff party!"

"Well," DeeKay mused, thoughtfully, "this is sure as Hell more fun than poring over those bloody Law books and appearing in his dreams to inspire Mr Bloody Slant. It was getting embarrassing. I'd manifest, make a point, and Slant would tear it to bits and advise me to go back and read up, as what I was saying would never stand up in Court!"

Tubso expressed her sympathy. She could see it was no fun being Goddess of Law if your principal believer was a centuries-old Zombie who had all the time and leisure to read all the law books and be better at it than you. And besides, nobody down there really believed in justice or the impartial process of Law any more. Even Death had declared U.D.I., with his oft-repeated proclamation of "THERE'S NO JUSTICE. ONLY US", the bony back-stabbing bastard. Dike had been sliding rapidly into Small God oblivion until an unlikely salvation had come for her, in the form of one of those little misunderstandings over a name people had only ever seen written down and thought they knew how to pronounce. This had brought her an entirely new and largely militant group of worshippers, who were temperamentally behind the proposition that a Goddess with a name like that was too good to waste.

And while belief sustains a God and pays the rent for an upmarket address in Dunmanifestin, it also shapes form and in this case gender preference.

It was a whole new lease of life for Dike. Reading the newly-appeared volume of police procedurals by Sir Samuel Vimes could wait. This was indeed a hell of a lot more fun. The old robes and blindfold were hanging in her wardobe alongside the scales and sword for when she needed them: a duty manifestation to Slant with the Scales of Law, or an occasional prod to Sam Vimes from the Sword of Law, although the cynical bastard seemed not to even notice. That was if she could get past the psychic doorman he'd had installed from somewhere. She sighed. At least this new duty didn't require her to wear the blindfold**(7)**. Walking around tripping over things with a sword in your hand was no fun. These days, Dike, or Dee-Kay, dressed more informally than before. It was a whole new lease of life.

Tubso sipped her wine. A short plump dumpy Virtue, she was entitled to a place at Dunmanifestin because of an ages-old timeshare agreement. All eight Virtues jointly got one apartment. In practice, since Bissonomy was still barred, there were only seven. It was left up to Diligence to arrange the diary, and all the Virtues agreed she was _good_ at that. And even though Tubso had slid so far down the scale that nobody remembered what she was Virtue _of,_ she still benefited. It was like having tenure at a university. Tubso appreciated the independence of mind and the inability to give a damn that this conferred. Her regular drinking buddy was Errata, Goddess of Chaos, Misunderstanding, and Random Factors.

"Don't mind me." grumbled Blind Io from his throne. "I'm only Chief of the Gods round here. Nobody _important_." He stood up and descended the steps, orbited by his many eyeballs. A deep sense was telling him that his Chief Priest was on the line. He needed privacy. Things had been happening in Ankh-Morpork that he felt obscurely troubled by.

"Where's that dentally gifted bastard Offler?" he asked. Although he already knew, he asked anyway.

"Out in the back, guv'nor. In the jacuzzi." offered Norris, Doorkeeper of the Gods, who as door porter had to know where _everyone_ was.

Io nodded thanks. It still astounded him that only the most senior Gods seemed to know the secret, that suitably gifted humans could tune in and eavesdrop on the intrigue and drama and general mundanity that was Dunmanifestin. Although he suspected that it wouldn't make a scrap of difference if they knew; they were so monumentally self-absorbed anyway that they'd just shrug and say "so what?" and get on with whatever petty squabble they were having.

He focused. After a while the message came in, a voice speaking inside his mind:

_Who Is Online: There are three registered users_**(8)**_ and one guest_**(9)**_ currently browsing._

"Well, it all adds to belief." he thought to himself, as he left the lounge through the large sliding Quirmian windows, and stepped out onto the patio decking.

"Io" said Offler, neutrally.

"Offler." said Io.

The crocodile-headed God was at his ease in the heated pool, his messenger birds picking industrially at his teeth.

"Coming in?" he asked.

"Join a crocodile in a Jacuzzi? I'll sit up here, thanks."

Offler chuckled.

"Very wise." he said. For a few seconds, there was no noise except for a faint unmistakeable but muffled ticking. Io looked questioningly at Offler.

"Look, it's something I ate, OK? I don't want to discuss it." The tone said that the subject of muffled ticking and things unwisely consumed would not be entered into.

Io nodded, sympathetically. Then he said the hitherto unsayable.

"I need your advice, Offler. I've got a problem in Ankh-Morpork."

To his surprise, the crocodile god did not laugh scornfully or make a sarcastic comment. The reptilian eyes looked up at him with something akin to sympathy.

"It's always bloody Ankh-Morpork, isn't it? You never get these problems in Klatch or Agatea or Genua. If it's not the bloody University, it's some bloody Dwarf who's too clever for his own good..."

"Or the Guild of Clockmakers.**(10)**" Io said, with seeming innocence. Offler looked up at him sharply.

"That business with the Glass Clock, is what I was referring to." Io clarified. "Not any other sort of clock, digestible or otherwise. Nearly had us all, that one."

"And that _spacecraft_." Offler added. "Caused us no end of bother."**(11)**

Io nodded, ruefully. He'd offered the Librarian the personal attentions of the Monkey God.**(12) **Advised afterwards of the trouble this could have caused had the Librarian's attention not been diverted elsewhere, Io still wondered how that one might have played out. He'd once been head-butted by Om in his own hall, after all. Gods were vulnerable in their own space.

"Igors." said Io. "And this woman who ended up as Goddess of the Eyeball People."

Offler was sympathetic. He sighed. And a crocodile sigh is a long sigh.

"Igors. You can't touch them." he said, regretfully. "Send a thunderbolt and they use it to power one of their electrical machines. I sometimes think they provoke us on purpose, for the free electricity."

Io nodded.

"It was all so much _easier_ in the old days." he reflected. "A mortal offends thy eye, you smite. Now..."

"At least the human woman was horrified at the idea and expressly said she didn't want it." Offler reflected. "And she's Ionian, so smite her and you lose a believer. Not good. If that business with Om taught us anything, it's to keep your believers, as you never know when you'll need them. But the other thing... Io, did you know the sodding Igors are making _teeth_ now?"

Io shared his fellow God's horror. Teeth were Offler's. Eyeballs were his. It was a very old arrangement. Only Gods had the right to call new teeth or eyes or other bodily parts into existence from nothing. This was another case of humans usurping god-like powers. This usually called for Thunderbolts With Extreme Prejudice. But thunderbolts were useless... and would kill true believers... and if they carried on like this, in a millennium or two, Gods might be redundant.

"Besides, she's an Assassin." added Offler. People in parched countries would have prayed to hear a crocodile-headed God pronounce the word "Assassin". "Smite her, and they'll come gunning for us. And you don't know what these people are potentially capable of. Look at what Teatime did to the Hogfather a few years ago. I hear trhey're actually encouraging each other to think of ideas now, with this Teatime Prize of theirs."

"Tey-ah-teem-ah" corrected Io, automatically.

"Whatever." shrugged Offler.

Io and Offler sat in gloomy silence for a while, allies in the moment.

"We can't stop this..." Io said.

"No. We can't." agreed Offler.

Then Offler sat up straight.

"Here's a thought!" he said. "It might look good for the record if we graciously say we endorse the bio-artificing of eyes and teeth. That we are aware, we have graciously permitted the Igors to produce bodily parts under licence, etcetera etcetera, but that we COMMAND that every implantation of a new eye or a new tooth be accompanied by a formal short service of thanks to the respective God, ie, you and me, for the miraculous bounty as regards dentition and oculence. If we can't stop it, we may as well be part of it and focus their minds in the right direction, get a bit more belief that way. Maybe suggest a donation to the Temple is in order, I know your man in Ankh-Morpork is all for free and unforced thanks in terms of hard cash."

"You could be onto something there." Io said, thoughtfully. "Ridcully gets the cash, I get the belief. Same for you if you talk to your man."

_Are you getting all this, Hughnon? _thought Blind Io. _I know you're online right now. _

And over a thousand miles away in Ankh-Morpork, Ridcully surfaced from the trance state of communion with the Gods.

"_...same for you if you talk to your man." _he mumbled, then tailed off.

Alice came out of the trance too, exclaiming "Damn and blast!" She'd followed Astoria and Dee-Kay back to a bedroom in Dunmanifestin and had been quietly observing. "It's _always_ when you get to the good bit!"

_Who Is Online: There are two registered users and no guest**s** currently browsing. Hughnon Ridcully, High Priest of the Temple of Blind Io in Ankh-Morpork, and one guest, have gone offline. _

"Did Ridcully get all that, do you think?" Offler asked, politely. Io smiled.

"He will have. He's very good. Unlike the rather senile old dodderer he succeeded**(13)**. The man in Quirm used to be good too. What was his name... oh yes, Algernon Band. Shame Death claimed him."

"Thank you both, m'dears! That was a good night's work! Need to get crackin' on writin' a new Liturgy. Service of Thanksgivin' on the receipt of new eyes by the gift of Io, sort of thing. Do you want to bring your young woman round to Temple so she can get Io's blessin' on her new peepers, get her in the clear with the God?"

Emmanuelle smiled. She was relieved to be no longer in danger of divine displeasure. That was worth an eyeball or two in offering. _If I have to sacrifice a pair of my eyes to the __**real**__ God of Eyeballs, Igor has plenty and to spare in two glass jars, _she decided. And having Catherine's new eyes formally blessed would do no harm, either.

It had been a good evening all round. But there were more disturbing things emerging in Catherine Perry-Bowen that needed her attention... as at her sword-fighting class that morning...

* * *

**(1) **This had been undertaken by Assassin Andrew Salt **(2)** (Welcome Soap House) , who, at great personal risk and some consequent injury, had infiltrated the university and stalked the potential client to build up a picture of his everyday routine, preferences and contacts. He had concluded "Don't bother. This man should go in the same category as Sam Vimes. Unkillable.")

**(2)**Andrew Salt is in real life a member of the deviantArt community. His report on the inhumability of Ridcully is available on the dA site and is a masterpiece of both fanfiction and fan-art. I completely recommend it! Shame FF won't let me post a link.

**(3) **Under the standard _Acts of Gods_ clause, naturally. Insurance companies being as they are, the very small print lists numerous exceptions, including the Abraxas Clause: mishaps deemed to be the result of deliberate provocation will not be covered by this policy.

**(4) **It's like this. A _gnosis_ is a personal encounter with the Godhead in which a revelation may be communicated or a Gospel proclaimed. An _abgnosis_ is when the Godhead calls round to your front door to deliver a personally bespoke thunderbolt. Hughnon Ridcully describes it as "the difference between a _rapture_ and a _rupture,_ y'follow? In the one, the God raises you up, yea, even unto the Third Heaven. In the other you come back down again, pretty fast, and it's a bloody long way to drop."

**(5) **Note to non-British readers: this should be said in a Geordie accent (north-eastern dialect English). Imagine, depending on your age, Eric Burdon, Alan Price, the Likely Lads, Sting, or Cheryl McCole. Sting was famously thought, in his Police days, to be affecting a West Indian accent in his singing voice. He really, really, wasn't. This is Geordie. Why-aye, man!

**(6) **Whenever the Gods played _Exaltation Factor,_ Reg, the God of Club Musicians (who knew what it was like) was generally sympathetic and constructive in his criticism. Fate, on the other hand, was a cutting, scathing, bastard. He still kept the form of a kindly-looking man in his prime to whom a maiden might offer a drink. But his eyes remained terrible soul-less pits, and he had taken to wearing well-tailored trousers that (unaccountably) were waisted far too high up his torso. The Lady sat between them on the judging panel, outwardly sympathetic but following an agenda of her own.

**(7) **Except for certain games suggested by Astoria. As Goddess of Law (semi-retired), Dike also had access to handcuffs and restraints.

**(8) **Ordained priests.

**(9) **Suitably gifted members of the laity (Alice Band, in this case)

**(10) **Refer to Terry Pratchett's _**Thief of Time.**_

**(11) **Refer to Terry Pratchett's_** The Last Hero.**_

**(12) **Who, sensing trouble, had disappeared back into the roof space and had evaded all attempts to coax him back down.

**(13) **Hughnon Ridcully's predecessor as Chief Priest met his end in _**Guards! Guards! **_by Terry Pratchett. The religious heirarchy must have expressed a wish for his successor to be a quiet unworldly country prelate who could be easily pushed around...


	6. Rising up to the challenge of our rivals

_**Looking Through Fresh Eyes 6: **__**Rising up to the challenge of our rival **_

_(Tying up a dangling loose end left hanging at the end of **Nature Studies**)_

Right, to it again after time spent doing other things (deviantArt, the L-Space Wiki and military modelling) ... This episode's soundtrack is as bit cheesy, but I hope appropriate to the context, which includes hot girl-on-girl action. (In the swordfighting arena, of course. Where did you _**think**_ I meant?)

* * *

The morning mail and newspapers arrived at the Assassins' Guild. Mr Stippler and Mr Maroon, the porters, received the morning mail with a few genial words exchanged with the postman, who they recognised as another member of the working proletariat doing a sound job for a day's dollar. Sometimes there was even time for a smoke-break and a cup of tea. (It helped that the postman doing the Guilds walk on Filigree Street was also a member of Mr Maroon's pub darts team). However, they usually kept the Canting Crew firmly at a distance from the main gate. Even for beggars more unhinged than a B.S. Johnson doorway, the Crew knew better than to push its luck at _this_ set of gates, and fifty or so copies of the Times and the agreed payment for such were exchanged at arms' length. The Assassins' Guild did not officially take the _Ankh-Morpork Inquirer_, as this was regarded as too proletarian and down-market. However, Mr Stippler and Mr Maroon knew their employers. Later in the morning, young Maroon the post-boy and general portering apprentice would be sent out to Fenders', the tobacconist/newsagents on Broadway, to pick up ten copies. Thus, the Porters' Lodge would be prepared when one of the teaching assistants would be sent down, at the bequest of senior teachers who would not be seen inhumed buying a copy of the _Inquirer, _came down to diffidently ask if the porters had a spare copy or two for the staffroom. As the delegated dogsbody had usually been primed with fifty pence or so to pay for the papers and put a bit of change in the Porters' Benevolent Fund, this arrangement suited everyone. **(1)**

Young Maroon, a pleasant youth of fourteen or so, was officially The Boy, learning the job for when it would be his turn to don the bowler hat of office as a fully-fledged Guild Porter, like his father. On this particular morning, he was diligently sorting and bundling the mail according to recipient, remembering to add a copy of the Times to each bundle.

_General mail to specifically named graduate Assassins and teachers without House duties goes into the correct pigeon-hole, for them to personally collect. Mail and parcels for school students goes into the appropriate House box and is to be delivered to the Housemaster or Mistress for distribution in-house. In theory the Master, the Registry, the Bursary and the Dark Council should be delivered first, as a priority._

In practice, Young Maroon knew, Raven House got its mail first, as Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss N'Kweze knew to save him their Howondalandian stamps. Madame Deux-Epées had cottoned onto this and knew to save him Quirmian stamps, as did Doktor von Graumunchen, although Überwaldean stamps were drab and not normally as collectable as the big gaudy exciting Howondalandian ones. The Master and the Dark council normally got in around fourth or fifth. Young Maroon had not yet been able to pluck up courage to ask Lord Downey if the stamps could be saved for him. Even though the Master and the Council received letters from literally all over the Discworld.

He felt privileged. His job didn't pay much, but his side business in dealing in the sort of stamps Ankh-Morpork didn't see many of – he remembered Miss Pretty Butterfly was kind enough to give him her Agatean stamps when he asked - was thriving. Duplicates and inferior quality stamps he sold on through Dave's Stamp and Pin Exchange, and this in a good week brought him almost as much as his wages from the Guild.

He diligently carried on loading the mail trolley, only pausing occasionally to check a name against the House rolls. Most parents knew to put the House their child belonged to underneath the name. He glanced down without interest at the front page of the Times. Some sort of press release from the High Priests with commentary by the paper's Religious Affairs Correspondent...

* * *

**Unprecedented joint statement from the High Priests of Blind Io and Offler! **

**Reproduced below with commentary from our Religious Affairs Correspondent, The Rev. Norman Lamister.**

**On other Pages: _Bioartificing. A miracle or a hidden curse? It is rumoured that several recipients have received Igor-created new eyes. "Strictly no comment" by Dr Lawn at the Lady Sybil. Guild of Assassins unable to comment on the rumour an Assassin was recipient... our Medical Correspondent reports. _**

**From the ****Council of ****Churches,**** Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks.**

**After prayerful consideration and consultation, it is our sacred duty, as the Discly intermediaries for the Great Gods Offler and Blind Io, to communicate the following Divine Revelation to the peoples of the Disc, for their information and enlightenment.**

**The Great God Blind Io has made His intentions clear on the practice of bio-artificing of ****all physical parts that constitute the human eyeball, and by inference the visual sensatory apparatus of all sentient beings.**

**The God has signalled His acceptance of and blessing on the practice of the creation of new eyes for those unfortunate enough to be either born blind or to lose their sight through misadventure. **

**The Great God has advised us to make it abundantly clear that through His intermediaries on Disc, the Clan of the Igors, He has bequeathed the Miracle of Understanding which has enabled Igordom to make this advance on behalf of the entire human race.**

**The bio-artificing and renewal of eyes is therefore to be classed as a Miracle bestowed by Io, and The Lord Io, Blessèd Be His Name, has henceforth decreed that any recipient of new eyes should attend upon a Temple of Io and receive formal Blessing upon their new Eyes, lest they be taken away again. (For the god has saith, That Which I Freely ****Give I May Also Freely Take Away Again.) This Service of Blessing will also carry the expectation of a small financial Tithe unto the Temple of Om, in recognition of the God's mercy and charity.**

**The Great God Offler has also communicated unto His servant on Disc that, similarly, the bio-artificing of Teeth shall also be seen as a Boon and a Blessing bestowed upon the faithful by the Lord Offler. The Faithful, being in receipt of new Teeth, shall attend upon a Temple of Offler to give thanks, receive Blessing, and offer Sacrifice in the form of a small affordable financial Tithe. **

**Supplements to the Order of Service and reccomended price-lists will be despatched to all Temples of Om and Offler within the next few days.**

_**Postscript: In response to an urgent inquiry from Ms. Estressa Partleigh of the Campaign for Equal Heights, we are at pains to reassure her that Dwarfs – and indeed Trolls and other sentient species – are of course included in this divine beneficence. Their spiritual arrangements are outside of our purview, and other races/species are politely and fraternally advised to seek guidance on this matter from their own priests, Grags, Alogroohaha, Shaman, Druid, or other intermediary with the species-appropriate Divine. If uncertain, the Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks will be pleased to point seekers after truth to the appropriate Temple.**_

_Asked to comment, a spokes-Igor at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital has informed the Times that "frankly, thith ith a load of utter cobllerth!" and accuthed the Churches of seeking to jump on the bandwagon and cash in on the Igors' research and innovation. Our intrepid reporter stood back hurriedly as a thunderbolt hit the spokes-Igor, but earthed harmlessly due to the built-in lightning conductor all Igors have self-installed. "Well, I don't call **that** much of an argument!" said the spokes-Igor, patting out a small fire in his clothing before lurching off, otherwise undamaged but smelling of smoke and charred hair. _

**Thought for the Day, **_** delivered by our Religious Affairs Correspondent, the Reverend Norman Lamister of Small Gods. **_

Good morning. I am reminded of what my dear departed grandmother once said on the topic of _"an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth"..._

* * *

Emannuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Epées put her copy of the Times down and exhaled, relieved that she was off the hook on this one. She smiled, and reflected that just to clear both of them, she had better get the girl down to Canon Clement so he could perform this blessing. You never knew, after all.

Young Maroon had been very commendably quick with the papers and the post that morning. She had been able to get through the morning post quickly, and read the interesting parts of the Times. She very soon had to go down to Breakfast, after which her first lesson was an intermediate class in Swords down in the arena. She frowned. Catherine Perry-Bowen was a part of that class. Some interestingly disturbing things had been emerging in Catherine's sword classes. Never really ranked much above Average – her skills, Emmanuelle suspected, laid elsewhere - Catherine had been developing not just an increased degree of competency, but something more than that. And in such a remarkably short space of time, too.

To fill the time before the Breakfast bell, Emmanuelle performed a few stretching and warm-up exercises. She was dressed as normal for a Swords class, in soft comfortable pumps, loose baggy harem-trousers, and a close tight-fitting sleeveless top. In deference to diplomatically-phrased requests, and the undeniable fact it was getting cold outside, she would pull a shapeless baggy top on before venturing out. That she was alone was just as well; in the tight-fitting top in an underheated room, the sort of bending and stretching exercises she did were capable of making older Assassins neglect their breakfast, and younger ones to contemplate the beneficial properties of a cold shower.

Breakfast, taken communally in the Great Hall, doubled as Morning Assembly. Canon Clement would read a Grace, and Lord Downey, or in his absence another Very Senior Assassin, would read out any routine notices, exhortations, or veiled threats, as befitted the Master. It was normal for House teachers to sit with their pupils, and insofar as she could, Emmanuelle tried to make mealtimes a pleasant, informal, and relaxed time for everyone. She was a Quirmian, after all: and Quirmian custom was that mealtimes were relaxed family times. And the girls of Black Widow House were her extended family.

This was pretty much like any other breakfast assembly. The Canon read Grace, meticulously thanking all Gods with an interest in the provision of breakfast to the Guild. This was necessarily inclusive of a dozen deities, including Cephut, God of Cutlery and Plateware, for His munificent provision of utensils to eat off and with; and to Anoia, Goddess Of Unsticking Things That Get Stuck in Drawers, for ensuring the kitchen staff had trouble-free operation of all storage spaces.

Lord Downey read several routine notices. He delivered thanks for the sterling achievement of the School's Llamedosian Rules Foot-The-Ball Team, noting the senior squad had defeated Ankh-Morpork Hergenians 21-18 by two tries, two conversions, three penalties, and some impressive gouging in the scrums. He also noted, with pride, the impressive progress of the edificeering squad and hoped this would deliver victory over the other competing teams in what was now the Boggis-Downey-Vimes trophy, in an expanded championship encompassing no less than _six_ city edificeering squads. He noted the Post Office Team would be a tough match, as would the ladies and gentlemen of the Extreme Sports Society, as well as our traditional opposition from the Thieves' Guild School. He also counselled that the rank outsiders of the City Watch team should not be discounted, as he was sure Commander Vimes would not have entered a side if he could only hope to come last.

"But, _however_." At this point the Master's tone changed and he put on a sterner visage. Emmanuelle sighed. Along with her pupils, she recognised the classic signs of a headmaster who was about to express discontent at some perceived fall from grace on the part of the pupils. It was all part of headmasters' boffo, after all, and an expected part of the morning performance. Whatever it was, it was likely to mean extra work for his teaching and pastoral staff.

"We have been monitoring the student body closely over the past few weeks. I am _not_ happy with one unwelcome trend that has been noted, and indeed several pupils have already been despatched to me for the traditional chat over a sherry and an almond slice." he continued, pausing to let the implications sink in. "Now I am aware you are all normal and relatively well-adjusted young people. You would indeed not be normal young people if you did not form friendships and attachments with pupils of the opposite sex. I pride myself in that we are liberal and relaxed enough to permit you to mix in classrooms, to share the approved communal space, and to be allowed out into the City in well-behaved mixed groups. This is, after all, all part of the normal process of growing up. But what we as your pastoral guides, who stand _in loco parentis_ to you, _cannot_ permit, is for these attachments to become deep and, er, romantic, affairs. We have your parents to answer to, and we are _responsible_ to them for the way we look after you.**(3)** I do _not_ want to see your schoolwork suffering and your studies as Assassins neglected, because adolescent infatuations are allowed to take priority."

He paused again and surveyed the School.

"You are all respectfully reminded that it is a breach of School rules for a student of one sex to enter the dormitory facilities, or indeed the House of Study, of students of the opposite sex. It is also a gross breach of school rules to leave your House after curfew, except in case of grave emergency. It is also a punishable breach of School rules to leave your dormitory at night with the intention of pursuing a romantic liaison. Breaches of these rules _will_ be detected and _will_ attract severe sanction. House tutors in particular are requested to be extra-vigilant. Security patrols, and the porters' lodge, have also been instructed to be vigilant and to detain anyone caught outside the buildings after dark with no extenuating reason. That is all, and I trust common sense will guide your footsteps. Thank you, and may your School day be a rewarding one."

Emmanuelle sighed. She looked over to the Tump House table and shared a knowing look with Miss Alice Band. It said _So we're expected to be moral police again. More work._

* * *

Catherine Perry-Bowen got changed for her Swords class. In a funny sort of a way, she was actually looking forward to two hours of high-impact physical activity. Madame Two-Swords was a good instructor, who, against all the usual expectations of any physical education teacher, was never sarcastic, did not play favourites, was positive and encouraging, and who only betrayed impatience or annoyance if a pupil was being physically lazy or unduly holding back. She expected a lot, but she also gave a lot. This would be a single-sex class. Which was for the good, as there was nobody to get distracted by. But, Catherine reflected, girls could be a lot more inventively nasty and creatively unpleasant to each other than the boys could ever _dream_ of. And speaking of which...

Deborah Rust looked over from her end of the changing room and gave Catherine a nasty smile. She said something to her particular cronies in a low voice, and they sniggered. Catherine felt her fists itch. A little part of her hindbrain whispered that sooner or later they'd be in Miss Smith-Rhodes' advanced class in Unorthodox Combat Techniques, where Deborah would not have a sword in her hand and would be at a disadvantage. Like all Rusts, Deborah sneered at _gutter-fighting_ and _lower-class fisticuffs_, considering them to be beneath her. As this was a good 60% of what Miss Smith-Rhodes taught in her class, Catherine quite looked forward to evening the score for past humiliations. She paused and frowned. A few months ago she would not have thought like that. Was it Taking Black that had hardened her? She shrugged, and adjusted the set of her protective face-mask. This would be needed: they were learning to duel with real swords. With real blades. She looked at Deborah again, the source of many previous humiliations in the swordfighting arena. Deborah was good with swords, and she knew it. She used her talent to bully and browbeat and humiliate, and Catherine had long been a favourite target.

Today, Catherine thought, things are going to be different. _Bring it on_. And then a Quirmian phrase popped into her head from nowhere. _A l'outrance! _

She looked across at Deborah and returned her smirk with a steady glare. She was pleased that just for a moment, Deborah's eyes expressed uncertainty. And she looked away first.

And then they were walking out into the arena, where Madame Two-Swords greeted them. Again, Catherine wondered why her teacher, normally attuned to her pupils, sympathetic and sensible, appeared to turn a near-complete blind eye to Deborah Rust's bullying and inflicted humiliations. It appeared to be the only blind spot in a teacher otherwise respected and held in high regard by her pupils. Catherine shrugged. The Rusts had power and influence in the City. If that extended to their teachers being wary of confrontation, then not even Madame Two-Swords would be immune to that. **(4)**

"Bonjour, mes amies!" Emmanelle called, cheerfully. "Today your skills training will advance to a new level. The swords which I will now issue are called Rapaelli sabres. Each of you will be pleased to take one, and you will listen attentively as I describe the sabre and the uses to which it may be put."

Catherine took one of the issue practice swords and tested its edge experimentally. _These have a blade. This is dulled for practice, and dulled by use, but it will still cut. It will hurt, even over leather armour and headguard. Look at Deborah. She intends to deliver hurt. _

"Why Rapaelli, madame?" somebody inquired.

"That is the name of the master swordsmith in Brindisi who makes these weapons." her tutor replied. "As lessons persist and you become practiced enough in recognising a good sword, when the time is right for you to select your own bespoke weapons which are most suited for you, I will guide you through the work of the Disc's best swordsmiths and weapons foundries. Such a choice is not to be taken lightly and cannot be rushed. The Disc's best swordsmiths include my own father in Quirm. I will introduce you later to his weapons."

She held up a hand and smiled objectively. "I promise you on my Assassin's honour I will be objective. I will not unduly recommend my own father's swords. I am independently wealthy, and have no need to receive a commission for every weapon sold. So is my father, on his own merits as a crafter of blades. He has no reason for me to shill his goods."

This provoked an appreciative laugh.

Deborah Rust looked at her weapon critically.

"Madame, this weapon is _ideally_ suited for _thrusting_." she observed. "But there is no point to the blade. It appears to terminate in a blunt, rounded, _button _device?"

She looked critically at Emmanuelle, as if wanting to ask why she had been issued a manifestly inferior piece of equipment. Emmanuelle returned a long cool look.

"Very well observed, Miss Rust." she said, coldly. "The weapon is indeed designed for thrusting. Had I been so incautious as to issue you a _true_ sabre, fully sharpened of blade and with the active point, a lunge with the full weight of your body behind it would penetrate both the leather armour you wear for protection and go straight through the body underneath. With enough killing force, it is likely to emerge from the other side. I can see that prospect pleases you? Let me assure you that the purpose of this class is that we all learn and remain alive afterwards. It is _not_ to leave a trail of bodies and to create more work for the cleaning staff in mopping up the blood. Dead people do not remember lessons. Therefore the armourer here has modified the points of these swords into blunt buttons. These will sting when they hit but will not penetrate. Therefore you will _all_ learn lessons. Now let us pair off and we will go through some drills. Two lines! Facing each other! _Avant! En garde!" _

For the first hour, Catherine drilled with her friend Chaka N'Golante, gaining familiarity and speed with the new weapon. She was aware that both Deborah Rust and Madame Two-Swords were covertly watching her. But sword classes, which had hitherto been a bit of an embarrassment to her, or at best an uncomfortable experience where she felt she didn't quite _fit_, were suddenly becoming right: it was as if all the drills and routines that she'd painstakingly had to learn over the years were suddenly coming together. Like learning an unfamiliar language or the rudiments of a new musical instrument, it was all coalescing. It was suddenly making sense to her. Her body flowed; the rote-learning, what Madame Two-Swords called bodily memory, was taking over and something new was emerging: a Catherine who was suddenly aware that a sword wasn't just two feet of heavy cumbersome ironwork. She suddenly understood. And she whooped with the exultation of it.

Chakkie, normally a far better swordswoman (although she still preferred spears and clubs, as befitted her Zulu heritage), found herself being beaten back and on the defensive. This was new for her too. It was uncomfortable for her to realise that had this been a swordfight for real, she had been killed four or five times over.

Madame Two Swords called a break after an hour and said she was very, very pleased with everyone's progress. "We will resume", she said, smiling, "with a little game, _mes enfants. _Are you familiar with the concept of the _melée? Oui? _Well, we shall have a _melée. _You will engage in a free-for-all mock combat. I will adjudicate and judge when somebody is killed or incapacitated. That person then withdraws from combat and stands against the far wall. She will take no further part. The last person standing will be judged the winner. There is no prize except the satisfaction of knowing, at that moment and only that moment, you are the best swordswoman in this class. Are we all ready? _Eh bien. En garde!_ Commence!"

The next half-hour was a blur of movement and mock combat. Catherine found herself anticipating and dealing with attacks from all sides. She found it all surprisingly invigorating and easy. Focusing for the moment on defending herself while the more indifferent swords were weeded out, and saving her strength and stamina for the demanding fights to come, she watched attentively as she moved, noting with distaste that Deborah Rust was deliberately targeting the weaker performers so as to gather easy scalps. She wasn't gentle, using the thrust of the sabre to punish and bruise, deliberately targeting arms, necks and upper legs that were not protected by armour or faceguard. Deborah was also insuring herself from side attacks by ensuring her two cronies flanked her, fighting to her left and right as a group, despite the rules of the game, one of the few rules of the _melée _being that there was no such thing as team fighting – it should be every woman for herself. Again she wondered why Madame Two-Swords di not intervene; one of the girls forced out of the game by Deborah and her minders looked to her teacher in protest, but Madame had a stony, almost unreadable, Look on her face that seemed to suggest there was a point being made, that any half-intelligent girl should be able to work out for herself.

As more and more girls adjudicated to be killed or wounded were motioned to drop out and stand by the wall, Catherine counted seven people still in the game. Herself, Chakkie, Deborah and her two cronies, and two others. Deborah looked over to her. Even behind her face-mask, Catherine sensed a delighted predatory smile.

The three moved towards Catherine and Chakkie, eliminating one of the other two on the way. Chakkie was exchanging cuts with the other, but ended her battle quickly, sensing the greater threat. Now there were only five.

_This is where it ends, _Catherine thought, leaping forward and tackling Deborah's right-hand minder. She glimpsed Chakkie taking out the one on the left side. It was over quickly as Madame Deux-Epées called them out of the battle. _Just well-bred thugs, _Cvatherine thought. _No finesse. No style. _ Now it was Chakkie against Deborah, the Howondalandian girl waving Catherine away: this would be a fair fight. The sabres clashed again and again. But the worst happened; Chakkie slipped and fell, exposing herself. Deborah _deliberately swung the flat of her blade against Chakkie's head, _half-stunning her. Catherine turned to Madame Deux-Epées, her whole body wordlessly screaming _You must have seen that! _

But now it was Catherine against Deborah. She fought down her rage and indignation and began really fighting, in a cold anger and directed violence. A sudden impulse made her rip off her face-guard and throw it down.

"Now aim for _my_ head, Deborah. If you _dare_." she said, in cold contempt.

They circled, warily watching each other. Catherine sensed the older girl was breathing heavily. She wasn't even winded; she'd conserved her stamina. She was dimly aware of a roomful of students who were silently cheering her on. But she was watching to see which way Deborah Rust would leap, attuned to even the tiniest of giveaway muscle movements. She watched.

_She's going to move to my left. To attack what she sees is my unguarded side. Let her see me unguarded. For just long enough..._

There was a leaping movement and a clash of sabres. Catherine sensed movement, braced herself, and countered...

Sabres clashed again. And again. And again.

Catherine smiled. Deborah was now frantically wasting her strength and stamina and _nothing was getting through. _She, Catherine, would attack soon. _But not yet. Let her waste her strength. Was that a tremor in her sword arm? _

And then Deborah stumbled slightly. Catherine saw her opening. She also wasn't inclined to be merciful. And from then on it was a one-sided contest. Blows, cuts and thrusts landed in quick succession as Deborah was forced backwards across the arena, until her back was against the wall and she could run no more.

"Do you yield, Deborah?" Catherine said, as she landed another painful thrust. She saw no reason to be merciful. "Do you submit? Come on, you can end this now with three little words. (_prod_) In Quirmian. (_thrust_) Should I remind you? (_slash_). I'm not going to mark your face or go for the head. (_thrust_) Because unlike _you_ I'm not an evil-minded sadistic bitch! (_thrust_) All you need to do (_hack_) is to say to me. In Quirmian. Repeat after me. _**Je.**__ (thrust) __**Me.**__ (thrust) __**Rends**__.(hack)."_

Deborah's sword arm had dropped but she was still holding the sabre and she hadn't yielded. Good. That made her punishment at Catherine's hands completely legal. Catherine was in the quiet place beyond rage and anger now. She was aware Chakkie was on her feet now and facing down Deborah's cronies, who were contemplating intervention. Then there was an unfamilar burbling snotty noise.

_She's crying. She'll be wetting herself next. Good. Now she knows what it feels like. _

As Catherine raised her sword arm for another blow, there was the noise of a sword being dropped. But no declaration of surrender. Catherine was angry. She raised her sword-arm for a punishing blow...

A blur of steel passed between them, causing her to step back.

"_**Assez!" **_ shouted Madame Two-Swords, stepping between them. _"Je t'ai dit! Assez! _That is _ENOUGH!"_

The class cheered. Deborah Rust, the swords-class bully, had been defeated and humiliated.

"Put down your sword. _Bon._ Go and join the class." Madame Two-Swords said, curtly.

"Deborah. Compose yourself. If you recall, I _did_ warn you something like this would happen. And assuredly, a better swordswoman did emerge, and she displayed to you the same mercy you showed to others. _Learn_ from this."

Emmanuelle took a deep breath. Dressed as she was, had this been a male class, this would have caused discomfort among young male assassins who would all have contemplated the soothing benefits of a cold shower. **(5)**

"Listen to me." she said, in a quiet severe voice. "I was at all times fully aware of Miss Rust's conduct and behaviour in these classes. I only intervened when it became too outrageous and indefensible. You may think I otherwise stood back and did nothing to remedy the situation."

She paused.

"And you would have been correct. _Ecoutez. _You are training to be Assassins. People who inhume other people in return for money. This is not a convent school. You are not in training to become nuns or contemplatives. The world out there is cruel and unequal and full of distasteful people, who will not hesitate to bully or browbeat or unjustly use superior force. _Ma foi,_ I _could_ have intervened to restrain Miss Rust and curb her excesses. But what message would that have sent out? That you are weak and inadequate persons who cannot act to remedy a bad situation for yourselves without recourse to authority or depending on me to put things right for you? _This is not the Assassin way! _I hoped and expected you would realise this for yourselves, and informally deal with a bully. In which case I would have looked in the other direction, and allowed you to do what was needful to restore balance and harmony.

"This has now been done and the balance is restored. Shortly I will dismiss the class and escort Miss Rust to Matron Igorina. I do not believe any bones have been broken, but she will carry many bruises as well as a deserved sense of humiliation. I will also privately speak to her Housemistress, Miss Smith-Rhodes. But now. _It is over. It is dealt with. Let there be an end to it! _Class is dismissed. Miss Perry-Bowen, you will see me in my office after school. That is all."

* * *

Emmanuelle was worried. Seeing Catherine's sudden competence in swords had been like looking at a younger version of herself.

_Those accursed eyes, _she thought. _I once joked it would make her a far better swordswoman. How right I was! She dealt with that situation mercilessly and without hesitation. Just I would have done to a bully. My swords teacher described me as having "the Eye of the Tiger" for fighting. I watched Catherine really fight today, and saw the Eye of the Tiger in her. Only a select few fighters have that. Little glory, but she has the guts and the will to survive. She will perhaps make a famous Name as an Assassin. _

She sighed. Her post-school meeting with Catherine had been short and sweet. Emmanuelle had counselled that she use her new-found ability with swords with humility and grace. "In future swords lessons, _cherie_, I may well use you as a teaching assistant to the limits of your skills. I do not believe you will become as arrogant and unfeeling as Deborah. You are not a Rust, after all, and you lack that noble family's fine breeding. I wish that you do this thing for the correct reasons and in a way that is beneficial to all."

Emmanuelle smiled. Office conversations with Catherine Perry-Bowen were getting to be _regular_ these days.

"I have asked for you to be released from your eleven o'clock lesson tomorrow. I am covering a mathematics class for Mr Mycroft, who is absent. I wish you to be present, as I require a classroom assistant. You may also learn a little useful something yourself, and it will serve to keep you out of trouble. That is all."

Catherine left, with relief.

* * *

**(1)** The _foreign_ newspapers and magazines arrived seperately, between a day and a week out of date depending on the mail coaches and distance travelled. The _SudÜberwaldeanZeitung_ for Herr von Ubersetzer and Mr von Graumunchen, the _Pseudopolis Herald,_ the _Sto Plains Dealer_, and illustrated magazines such as the _Quirm-Match_** (2)**were also widely read by Guild teachers.

**(2) **Mr Stippler did not speak Quirmian, but he still leafed through the _Quirm-Match_ for its full and unparelleled iconographic coverage of Quirmian actresses and celebrities explaining that if nudity was necessary in the script, then, _zut alors,_ I must respect artistic integrity and go unclad. This point of artistic merit was generally copiously illustrated. The publisher of Quirm-Match was listed as a Monsieur _Celui-Me-Trancherai-Ma-Propre-Gorge _Planteur.

**(3) **Everybody, from House tutors down, knew the code. The words expressly left unsaid were _I do not want to receive complaints from fee-paying parents who are concerned that their daughters are being allowed too many freedoms. Losing fee revenue is a grievous matter. _

**(4 )**Actually, Catherine was doing Emmanuelle an injustice here. Madame Deux-Epées was all too aware of Deborah Rust's incivility and the use of her superior skill to hurt and belittle her classmates. After one especially egregious class in which she had stepped in to prevent Deborah going a little too far, she had privately spoken to Miss Rust. _"You are fortunate in that you are a better swordswoman at fifteen than your peers. You might wish to think of using your talent productively, to help and to nurture and to encourage your peers who are not as advanced as you? No? Then let me suggest, ma ch__è__re enfant terrible, that what goes around comes around. One day you will encounter a swordswoman who is _**_better_**_ than you. Whose skills outstrip yours. Who will then show you _**_exactly_**_ the same degree of respect and consideration you display to others. I put it to you that when this day arrives, it will not be pleasant for you and you will learn one of life's lessons the hard way. It is up to you, cherie. I will only intervene with the most extreme reluctance at this stage in your training. Everyone else has to learn a lesson too, and some lessons may not be taught. They may only be learned. That is all. Go away and reflect. _Emmanuelle would, in one respect, be gratified when this day arrived.

**(5) **Although one or two of the girls, who could have benefited from a quiet informal pastoral word with Miss Alice Band, were biting their lips and trying not to make their reaction _too _obvious. The Assassins' School frowned on this sort of thing even more severely than normal heterosexual adolescent displays.

* * *

_**Yes. You guessed it. Cheesey, isn't it...**_

Risin' up back on the street  
Did my time, took my chances  
Went the distance now I'm back on my feet  
Just a man and his will to survive  
So many times, it happens too fast  
You trade your passion for glory  
Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past  
You must fight just to keep them alive

(Chorus)  
It's the Eye of the Tiger  
It's the thrill of the fight  
Rising up to the challenge of our rival  
And the last known survivor  
Stalks his prey in the night  
And he's watching us all  
With the Eye of the Tiger

Face to face, out in the heat  
Hangin' tough, stayin' hungry  
They stack the odds till' we take to the street  
For we kill with the skill to survive

(Repeat Chorus)

Risin' up straight to the top  
Had the guts, got the glory  
Went the distance, now I'm not gonna stop  
Just a man and his will to survive

It's the Eye of the Tiger  
It's the thrill of the fight  
Rising up to the challenge of our rival  
And the last known survivor  
Stalks his prey in the night  
And he's watching us all  
With the Eye of the Tiger

The Eye of the Tiger  
The Eye of the Tiger  
The Eye of the Tiger  
The Eye of the Tiger


End file.
